


In Which Harry Potter Discovers a River in Egypt

by Kestrel_Sparhawk



Series: Love Makes You Stupid universe [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel_Sparhawk/pseuds/Kestrel_Sparhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing roommate, a mysteriously familiar male prostitute, murdered Muggles, and an angry boss are all making life difficult for Auror Harry Potter. And that’s <b>before</b> he discovers that the reason he’s avoided having girlfriends for three years is not just because he doesn’t like publicity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harry Gets An Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> First, please note that this was written BEFORE _Deathly Hallows_ and therefore has a few oddities, most notably Scrimgeour in charge and Draco absent for the end of the war. While I'm editing for SPAG and the worst writing errors, it's pretty much just as it was posted before, which means very AU in 7th year. (and no epilogue to worry over)
> 
> This was rewritten as a gift to someone who requested vampires and cross dressing, among other things like plottiness. Plot was easy -- the others I was less familiar with. I thought of vampires as recovering from blood addiction on my own, but since have read Terry Pratchett, whose glorious stories of course include Black Ribbon vampires (which btw is more parallel to 19th century tradition than to AA). My main goals besides romance were to make fun of nonprofits (in the form of Mill's gf) and to reclaim Millicent Bullstrode from the cruel hell to which Potter fans generally consign her. And of course to have lots of fun, since this was my first gift exchange ever.
> 
> I hope you do too.

Harry straightened his tie, wondering why it suddenly felt so tight. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

Gawain Robards glared at him with even more contempt than Harry was accustomed to seeing when the chief Auror looked at him. “Did you or did you not know your . . . _roommate_ associated with vampires, prostitutes, and Muggles, Potter?” He turned “roommate” into an evil word. Harry was already used to “Potter” sounding like an unpleasant taste in Robards’ mouth.

“And I’m asking why you want to know.” _Whoops_ , Harry thought, _there goes everything Mill taught me about staying polite when confronted with an arse._

“It’s pretty damned obvious, don’t you think? Even for someone like you, who needed special dispensation to join the Aurors.” Robards stood up and moved aggressively into Harry’s personal space. “If you knew – and don’t bother to deny it, you couldn’t possibly have failed to know – then you were living with someone who is supposed to stay clearly on the side of Light, and isn't. You’re not above the law, Potter – you’re an Auror, just in case you haven’t noticed.”

“It was none of my business, sir.”

Robards flushed bright red. “What do you mean, none of your business?”

“I mean, my job is to investigate Dark wizards. Not to report on my roommate’s proclivities. She did nothing against the law.” He thought what Mill would say: _Very Slytherin answer, Harry. Maybe you can be taught._

Where the _fuck_ was she, anyway? It had been three days, and he didn’t know what to say to Lila anymore.

“Bulstrode is a fellow Auror, Potter, not just some stray roommate.”

“How would I know you _didn’t_ know, anyway? I had no reason to check.”

Robards fulminated for a minute. “You are one bloody inch from being sacked, Potter.” _Ask me if I care._

But Harry did care. The Hero of the Voldemort wars, dismissed from the Aurors? The Prophet was already going through one of its periodic “Harry Potter is mental” phases, this one cobbled together from rumours about why he broke up with Ginny and that he was hanging out with lesbians in leather bars. This would feed the rumours, and then he’d _never_ get a girlfriend. Not that he felt like risking it anyway, these days. He’d sworn off sex during his entire Auror training just to keep the Prophet off his back. Well, sworn off except for the occasional drunken miscalculation, anyway.

Robards continued to ream him out for several minutes, then calmed down sufficiently to give Harry a punishment assignment – one of those excruciating ones that offered days of looking for clues which would almost certainly come to nothing. Not learning anything would probably be acceptable, because the problem wasn’t much to worry about anyway. Robards seemed to think the greatest advantage to assigning Harry is that it would educate him concerning Mill’s “proclivities.”

“If you screw this one up, Potter, you really will be out the door. I’ve got Scrimgeour’s word on it.”

Harry knew Scrimgeour loathed him, from the days Harry had refused to be a front for the Ministry. Nonetheless, after the War Scrimgeour had waived the usual requirements to get him in as an Auror, and Harry had been grateful, if surprised. It was hard to fulfill the Auror qualifications when he’d been hunting Voldemort for much of his seventh year. It was only after he started hanging out with Mill Bullstrode that he learned Scrimgeour viewed Harry being an Auror as a good public relations investment for his administration.

Unfortunately, the Chosen One had already performed his primary function. If he’d been a horse, Harry thought morosely, he would have been put out to stud at that point; he’d be the perfect age for it in human years. In fact, no doubt it was the admiring fans’ presumption that heroes should breed which led to the public pressure to get engaged . . . to Ginny, of course. And what a disaster _that_ was. Hermione and Ron notwithstanding, school romances which continued after school tended either to peter out or end in big drama. His own had been no exception.

He mumbled something obedient and apologetic to Robards and left to prepare for punishment duty.

**][o][o][o][o][**

Harry’d met Mill officially when they were both in Aurors training. He’d been her partner for a lot of duels, because they turned out to be pretty well matched. He vaguely remembered her from Hogwarts – an unattractive first year who had grown into a distinctly plain young woman. She’d been quite good at fighting. His most vivid memory of her was the day in fifth year she grabbed Hermione when Umbridge was trapping the DA. The second most vivid was when she’d put Hermione into a headlock in second year.

At Hogwarts, Millicent had straggly brown hair and a perpetual pout. She was built pretty much like the Dursleys’ house in a solid square, from jaw to feet. She looked terrible in school robes. Now, she was still solid, but had clearly worked hard at passing the physicals, and her body was mostly muscle, not fat. When they did hand to hand practice, she could beat any of the trainees, and usually did. She wore a wide leather bracelet on her left wrist, and when he’d asked her one day, just needling, if it was to hide her dark mark, she replied, “Potter, it _is_ a dark mark. The Dark Lord simply had his own, tackier kind.” Her hair was short now, blond and brown stripes, and he’d never actually noticed before how lovely her eyes were, or how pronounced her bones. She’d grown comfortable with her body, and he thought she was pretty hot, in an androgynous way – kind of like Freddie Mercury, only more masculine and with less hair. She came to work on a Harley, which pleasantly reminded him of Sirius, although when he asked her if she’d charmed it to fly, she snorted. “I’m a purist, Potter. Harleys have their own magic. Anyway, I’m in a Muggle bike group.”

The day training finished, she had dragged him along with several others to get pissed with her in a wizarding club. In training, Harry had stuck to his own kind pretty much, uncomfortably aware how much favouritism he’d been shown to get in, and trusting Gryffindors at least to give him a chance, even if they _were_ from a different year. There were two other Gryffindors in the group, so he just went on breaks with them unless Mill had been working with him just before – she wouldn’t let him leave then. “Come on, Potter, you need to make friends outside your comfort zone. School’s over – we’re not _in_ houses anymore.” But the two Gryffs had a party to go to, old school friends from Divinations Club, and he wasn’t invited. Harry tried not to feel left out – after all, if he had been invited, he’d also have to be with a group of people who thought it was fun to argue about the relative merits of chicken entrails and tea leaves for reading the future. 

Ron and Hermione and he had of course made plans to celebrate, but Ron had made it to the regionals in the Ministry of Magic’s National Wizarding Chess Tournament and the contest was the next day. He needed to sleep and not drink. 

So Harry went with the loud crowd he didn’t know well, and got thoroughly, completely, totally pissed – enough to actually attempt to engage in conversation with Mill. He called her Millie, not Bulstrode, for the first time, and she pushed him so hard he landed on his arse.

“It’s Mill, Potter, if you’re going to use my name at all.”

“You don’t like Millie? What about Millicent?” He heard the words slur and was dimly pleased they had all managed to make it out of his mouth.

“Potter, have you _ever_ met anyone hip, cool, together, suave, whatever word you want to use, with the name Millicent?”

Harry pondered this. Eventually, he noticed she hadn’t been around for awhile while he was pondering, and he pulled himself up by strangers’ robes and staggered around till he found her dancing with a woman wearing robes and a Slytherin tie. There was nothing underneath the robes but a bustier and boxers, and the tie was around her blonde hair. The robes were unfastened.

“You could be the first,” he said, trying to look Mill in the eye and looking at a breast instead. He cocked his head and tried to focus; he hadn’t remembered Mill being quite that tall.

“The first what? Potter, you’re falling down drunk.”

“The first really fabulous, brilliant, together, hip, cool, suave . . . and that other stuff . . . Millicent.”

“Potter, we talked about that 45 minutes ago.”

“I had to think.” For some reason, he was staring at a waistband now. He put a hand out to hold himself up on a chair back, and found himself braced on the seat instead. Oh well, it was solid.

He heard her groan. “Potter, call me Mill or call me Bulstrode, either’s fine. No Millie, no Millicent. And I think you better sit down.”

“Wannagohomewimme?” He put a tentative hand on her waist, since it was handy. She really was hot. At least, snarky. Snarky was hot, wasn’t it? And leather always was. He was a pushover for leather.

She gave a sharp bark that sounded like the Millicent Bulstrode who’d used to annoy him for being taller than Malfoy and sitting in front of him when he wanted to glare at the blond prick. “Potter, sweetie, what have I _ever_ said that would make you think I was straight?”

Harry pondered this, though not for long. “Would that stop you from going home with me?”

“That, or the fact that even if I were completely enthralled by you, I’m absolutely positive you would not be able to perform tonight. Why don’t you hit on some nice boy who could nail you while you’re drunk?”

Harry blinked in horror. “I’m not . . . . I’m not . . . I’m not that kind of guy.”

“Gryffs don’t do one-offs?”

“Gay. I’m not GAY.” Somehow the word was coming out loud. Really, really loud. Now he thought about it, Mill was dancing with a woman. There were a lot of men dancing together in the club, as well. What kind of bar was this, other than one which served really, really strong drinks so that some innocent Living Boy who’d only had four could be this incapacitated? He tried to ask that question but got stuck on “incapacitated.”

“Mill. I’ll call you Mill,” he offered hopefully.

He saw her look at the woman in the bustier and sigh heavily, then look at him. “Potter, don’t you have any survival instincts at _all_? There are people out to kill you. Lots of people. They didn’t like what you did to the Dark Lord.”

Harry squinted till he could see her eyes to look into them. “Do you want to kill me?”

“Not usually.”

“Can I go home with you, then?”

And Mill took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, hauled him over her shoulder as they’d been trained to do to rescue wounded, and said, “The things I do for my brother Aurors.”

Harry didn’t remember much about the rest of the evening, except that it involved an unpleasant amount of time kneeling by the toilet. He woke the next morning rather sleepy and hungry but otherwise undamaged, and naked except for his boxers. His memory was so spotty that for a horrified instant, he thought he _had_ come home with someone and shagged. He staggered into the bathroom and found a brand new toothbrush in a package, a small can of tooth powder, a clean face flannel and towel, a bar of soap, and a neatly-written note that said, “Your wand’s in the kitchen. You weren’t in shape to use it, but kept trying.”

Harry groaned, used the cleaning supplies provided, washed his face, and shambled into the kitchen. Mill, looking cheerful in a black dressing gown with red piping, was stirring porridge on the stove. She indicated the table. “Coffee?”

“Oh, god, please.”

“Who are you?”

The voice was small and high. Harry looked around and realised that there was a small person staring up at him: someone perhaps three years old, with a halo of fluffy gold hair, and dark eyes like Millicent’s . . . oops, Mill’s.

“I’m Harry. Who are you?”

“I’m Lilac. The 17th princess Lilac of Tir Na Nog.” She curtsied to him. Harry was in no condition to return the bow.

“Get dressed, Lila. Your porridge will be ready in a few.”

Harry tried to connect this pretty, delicate looking child to Mill, and came up wanting. “She’s er . . . a friend of yours?”

“Potter, you really ask the most tactless questions I’ve ever heard, drunk or sober. She’s my daughter Lilac Bulstrode. Got a problem with that?”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “Of course not.”

Lilac came running back, dressed in Muggle overalls and a t-shirt with a brown fedora on her head. “Look, mummy, I’m a detective!”

“I thought you were a princess today.”

“I don’t like crowns as much as hats.”

“Porridge, Harry?” 

It was calm, and domestic, and friendly. Mill never said a word about the drunken pass he’d made at her the night before. They had coffee, and porridge with brown sugar and milk, and then tea. The caffeine returned him to something like human. When Lila found out that Harry was _the_ Harry Potter, she wasn’t embarrassingly impressed, but she had lots of questions about his scar, his adventures, and whether his wand (which Mill took down from the top of the fridge and returned to him) was the same one that killed the Bad Lord. She wanted to know if he would teach her the curse he’d used and lend her his wand. Harry was horrified. He had not been around children much except in his official capacity, kissing babies after the war. They looked such fragile, innocent creatures he was always afraid he would damage one. Lila looked that way, but she was tougher than she looked. He wondered if other children might be too, or if it was a result of being Mill’s daughter.

Lila turned out to be older than he thought. She was almost five – so much for being able to guess a child’s age. Harry surreptitiously counted that out on his fingers and concluded Mill had gotten pregnant near the end of seventh year, which explained why she had joined the Aurors a bit later than average.

After that, he ended up over at Mill’s flat a lot. It was a nice flat in the wizarding district, three bedrooms one flight up, not far from Old Compton Street, ostensibly Muggle territory but actually a district where gay Muggles and wizards mingled. Mill felt at home there. She had explained that she didn’t “do” men, except once, the last time she got drunk and stupid. The incident had produced Lila, so that was all right. 

In many ways, Mill seemed what Harry thought a mother should be like; unflappable, with a good sense of humour, firm on a few things and adjustable for most. She was that way with Harry too. She didn’t fuss over him, but she fed him when she fed Lila, helped him with his homework (he was trying to take his NEWTS for his own self respect) introduced him to her favourite bars, and taught him the names of drinks she thought he should stick to. He thought if Hermione had become a leather dyke with bike, she might have been a lot like Mill.

Most important, he wasn’t as edgy and prone to losing his temper around Mill and Lila. Of course, part of the reason for that was Lila – Harry thought if he really lost it, he would scare her. But it was also that they seemed to like him – not with the protectiveness that Ron and Hermione had necessarily developed over the years, but simply enjoyed his company. He was not accustomed to being liked by anyone who had not watched him grow up. 

It was amazing how soothing it was to spend time with a family that had none of the inevitable drama of the Weasleys. He loved them, but somehow after an evening with that chaotic household, Harry just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. It didn’t help that it had always been just a little awkward after he broke up with Ginny, although everyone tried hard not to let that make a difference – except for Ginny, who did mind and made that clear, until Ron took her aside and pointed out that being nasty was not likely to make Harry feel sorry he’d broken up with her.

“And anyway,” Ron had said (as Hermione imitated him, because she’d eavesdropped on the conversation in the Weasley kitchen) “you two are so wrong for each other. You want someone who puts you first. He’s an Auror, and a public figure, and fighting Dark magic is always going to come ahead of you. That’s what Harry _is_ – and if you haven’t figured that out by now, you really didn’t understand Harry anyway.”

Finally, one day after Harry and Mill had been working as Aurors a month or so – in different areas, much to Harry’s disappointment – Mill said, “I need a roommate.”

Harry knew she’d broken up with her long-time partner, a former Hufflepuff, a couple of months previously. “Well, start cruising.”

“Not that kind of roommate. I need someone I can leave Lila with sometimes, who isn’t a drama queen, and can share the grocery bills. He wouldn’t have to pay any rent.”

“He?”

“Cuts down on drama. Want to move in?”

Harry did.

**][o][o][o][o][**

_Mill –_

_Well, my owl has always managed to track down people for me, even during the war, so I’m taking Guenever out of honourable retirement and sending her after you. That night at Poison is going to make me swear off taking your word on the good pubs and clubs for ever, curse you. I swear I saw a wallaby and a rat running for cover when your friends showed._

_What kind of Animagus is a **wallaby**? I had to look it up in _Persiflage_ , and I’m still squinting from the translation spell. As to the rat, the only rat Animagus I ever knew was a ridiculous little deathmuncher who is living out the rest of his unnatural life with an even more unnatural smile pasted on his face by an Imperiused Dementor. Not that I had to see it. The pleasures of Moscow were manifold, and avoiding Divine Retribution in the form of Potter was definitely not one of the least of the pleasures. Perhaps the rat was just a rat – Poison is that sort of place._

_What I didn’t see at Poison was you, then or later. Where did you go? I distinctly saw some robes similar to the old Death Eaters – I thought they weren’t around any more. Then came the unpleasant invasion of more Aurors than one could shake a stick at. I shook my wand at them and Disapparated._

_\--D_

**][o][o][o][o][**

_Mill, for Merlin’s sake, where are you? I know you’re not home – I’ve been loitering around your building to check when it might be least be safe to try the wards on your flat. I was punished for this by being forced to watch the person you have coyly called Uncle Harry in your owls – did you think I wouldn’t SUSPECT? No doubt half the next generation is currently being named Harry or Harriet, poor things, but Lila must have been at least BORN when that trend started. You wouldn’t leave a five year old with a two year old, would you? Didn’t think so. Especially, Merlin help us, one named “Harry.”_

_I was forced to watch the Boy Who Ruined Hogwarts for Me and his redheaded crony each holding one of Lila’s hands – she was not shown to best advantage in such homely company, I assure you. Potter’s taste has apparently not improved since Hogwarts, though now it seems to run to discount store denim trousers and no-doubt-donated-to-needy-twits stained and raggedy shirts. To make up for 14 school terms of incredibly large clothing, this shirt left about 3 inches of arm at the end. I do hope he knows enough to dress adequately for his job. I will say one thing for his fashion sense: it must be very useful in undercover assignments. No one would ever think he was an Auror. Or a wizard. Or employed._

_Lila looked healthy – I know you’ll ask that, though it would serve you right if I lied and said she looked a wreck. But healthy is as positive as I can go. The two idiots were pulling her arms up and swinging her, with no thought that it might dislocate her arms which EVERYONE knows, and she was laughing. So she is certainly in danger without you – not to mention someone, I presume Potter, had dressed her in yellow robes and blue trousers like Potter’s own, with the result that she looked like nothing so much as a daffodil in a blue vase. Completely unsuitable for a child of her lineage, or for that matter, any child remotely human._

_I’ve concluded that I’m going to have to disguise myself sufficiently to fool Potter and get him to talk to me. He may have some information which will help me find you. Trust him to be completely unconcerned about you himself. I saw him ambling about among some of the Ladies of the Evening yesterday, dressed adequately enough (i.e., no large holes in his shirt) that I presume he was on undercover work or had finally figured out the only way he was going to find a non-redheaded and non-freckled girlfriend was to dress up and pay her. (I know, I know, you don’t like the term Lady of the Evening, but if you don’t like it, write back and tell me. While you’re at it, could you just MENTION, as an ASIDE, what the fuck you’re up to?)_

_If Potter wants a prostitute, he’ll get a prostitute. I won’t actually have to touch him and get Chosen cooties; just make him think I’m going to. I think your Hogwarts theory about where his interests would lie, if he ever got over himself, might be correct. On the street with the Weasel, he kept his eyes busy – and not with the pretty girls. Too bad I was disguised as one of them. So it’s unlikely he was actually wanting to date a Lady of the Evening himself . . ._

_\--D_

_PS: Lila was also wearing a cap with a visor, which said Puddlemere United. It matched neither her hair, her robes, nor her trousers. Nor is it her name._

__


	2. Harry Discovers a Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry encounters a mysterious ~~rent boy~~ sex worker and learns what he's been missing. Draco takes a swipe at Attachment Parenting, but then, it's Draco.

Harry saw the rentboy before the other saw him. He’d noticed them before, of course, hanging out not far from Mill’s flat, just a street beyond the wizarding district most of them couldn’t see. He suspected that a few could, but probably didn’t come there much. Wizards who wanted to participate in the sex trade went to the Muggle areas, mostly. He’d heard there were some discreet signals for wizards with magical kinks, mostly consisting of coloured socks with certain patterns, which the Squib rentboys and prostitutes who took up the trade recognised.

“Sex workers!” he reminded himself. Mill would have killed him for using “prostitute” -- or “rentboy,” for that matter. She was emphatic that there was nothing inherently wrong with being a sex worker, just the conditions of employment. She also emphasized that for many, the work was compulsory, not simply economically necessary. Mill could be as much as a pain as Hermione some days. She and Hermione were finally beginning to enjoy talking to each other. It had taken them long enough -- they’d been enemies since second year.

He missed Mill – and Hermione. At least he knew where Hermione was. India, doing some extended research on eastern magical strategies. No wonder Ron had been visiting him so much lately. He could have gone – but they all three knew he was needed in the emergency preparedness unit of the Ministry. Besides, when Hermione was in research mode, Harry and Ron had learned long ago just to leave her alone till she was done.

Harry forced his mind back to his unattractive assignment. Well, the _assignment_ was unattractive – he supposed this bloke was attractive, really, in an over-the-top sexy way, though of course not to him. He was kind of shocking. He had on black silk trousers with rawhide laces crossed and wrapped all the way up to his groin, showing off every inch of leg and bits. The trousers rode low, and peeking out above them were some lacy, frilly, _girly_ knickers with little bows. His top was tight fitting, the hem ripped off so that it couldn’t quite reach his belly. There were strategic rips in various places that made it seem some desperate lover had tried to get it off him and almost succeeded. The neck of the shirt flapped open a bit, showing rather a thin neck and a collarbone that looked . . . well, lickable, Harry supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. He was barefoot, which was a pretty good trick in London any time of year, and he had ice-blond hair that looked natural. Harry had last seen hair that colour on that bastard Malfoy. He looked sharply at the stranger’s face to make sure he didn’t see Malfoy’s pointy features. To his relief, it was snub-nosed and blue eyed – two things Malfoy definitely had never been. His mouth, though, seemed to know how to smirk. 

Harry felt a twitch in his groin and mentally slapped himself. He knew it was just the tricks of the trade, but he was usually immune, even to the women. It must be the lacy pants – and the fact he hadn’t had sex in years. Or it might be relevant to the assignment. There was word that something called Karma was a love potion to make you irresistibly attractive to others, and the sex workers were using it to attract business. Harry was supposed to find out if it was another fake – most likely – or an actual potion, in which case he’d have to find out who was selling it. He was beginning to suspect that it might actually be real, and this rentboy was using.

The boy – young man, Harry noted, just a year or so younger than himself, surely – noticed Harry watching him and slid over. He had a liquid stride that said “Look at me, I’m the sexiest thing around,” and Harry had to admit the stride was telling the truth. He started to wonder if the mysterious potion he was searching for worked second-hand – a few did, and these feelings he was having simply weren’t natural. That would also explain how they could get it to work. After all, persuading your customer to drink something wouldn’t always be easy. 

The bloke smiled at him. “Hello, there. Like what you see?”

As a pickup line, it was businesslike. Harry pretended to be examining the young man, while considering. Pretending to be a customer might be a good strategy. He’d have an excuse to talk to the other and ask questions.

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” he said coolly. “What’s your name?”

That earned him a smouldering look. “You can call me Darwin.”

Well, that answered the question if he were perchance from the wizarding community. You couldn’t get a more Muggle name than Darwin.

“So, your place?” he asked uncomfortably.

Darwin sauntered closer and slid a warm hand around Harry’s leather-covered arm. “The alley would be faster.”

Harry tried not to make a face. “I don’t want fast.”

“It’ll cost more.”

“I don’t care.”

The hand on his arm was doing weird things to his body. It was becoming more and more certain that this Muggle was using a wizarding potion to affect him. Well, he’d thrown off _Imperio_ before; this shouldn’t be as hard. So to speak.

Darwin led him to a surprisingly attractive apartment – shabby, but immaculate, and bare enough that it didn’t look impoverished, just ascetic. The furniture was old – very old, the newest piece over a century, and although they were probably rescues from wherever, they made the place feel oddly elegant. 

When they got in, Darwin led him into the living room and stood staring at him a minute.

“Ummm . . . what am I supposed to do?” Harry asked.

That led to a smirk which looked eerily like Malfoy’s. Harry’s stomach lurched. Definitely a potion. Nothing reminding him of Malfoy could possibly be sexy.

“New to this, are you?”

“Yeah . . . . what of it?”

“Virgins are extra.”

“I’m not a virgin! I’ve just never . . . I’ve never been with a man.”

Darwin, oddly, seemed to relax a little at that. “So what do you want?”

“Well . . . just to talk, really.”

Darwin looked at him incredulously. “To _talk_? You want me to talk . . . oh, talk dirty, is that it? What should I call you, by the way?”

Harry thought quickly, his mind gone blank from the offer. “Neville . . . Neville Weasley.” He remembered the confusion when he’d been Neville Longbottom for the Knight Bus. He was much sneakier now.

“Memorable name,” Darwin said, sounding as if he really thought so. In fact, he looked as if he were trying not to laugh. Harry was glad he hadn’t used “Longbottom.”

Darwin sat on the couch and crossed his legs, pulling his heels up to his crotch. That made it abundantly clear that the lacy panties weren’t at all constricting, and definitely could be seen through. Harry tried not to look. “Okay, sit down, Neville. I’ll make it easy to start.”

Harry sat gingerly down at the other end of the couch. Darwin looked at him, then smoothly rose to his knees and crawled over, putting his mouth close to Harry’s neck. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said, in a low voice that was like a hand on Harry’s cock. “Green’s my favourite colour. And that mouth . . . looks flexible. There are a lot of things I’d like to do with a mouth like that. Can you imagine some of them?”

Harry _knew_ he was blushing. He shook his head, wondering at what point he should bring up his questions. This talking wasn’t going in the right direction.

Darwin sniffed at Harry’s throat and then, thoughtfully, tasted it. “Your pulse is faster,” he observed, still in that sultry voice. “I can’t believe I’m getting to you. I haven’t even _started_ talking dirty.”

It was that damned potion, whatever it was. Darwin would definitely be worth interrogating . . . if Harry could ever find the words to ask something.

Darwin’s hand was on his inner thigh. “Mmmmm, muscles. I’d like those muscles holding me down. Keeping me from squirming as you licked your way up from my navel to my jaw. And then you’d lick all the way down again . . . but you wouldn’t stop at my navel.”

Harry trembled

“You’d keep licking downward, oh so slowly, your thighs still pinning me, your hands on my chest, pushing me down, the palms covering my nipples. They’d grow hard from that, you know; hard from your hands. And as you got below my waist, other parts would be getting hard too.” His voice was getting rougher as he spoke.

Harry shifted restlessly.

Darwin slipped a hand inside Harry’s jacket, then beneath his chambray shirt, then beneath the white knit shirt he wore . . . “My god, why all the clothes?” he asked, in a more ordinary voice, but then returned to the sultry one. “Scared someone’s going to get too close? Have to keep yourself closed off from the world?” His fingers were sliding through the fabric, deftly removing Harry’s defences, layer by layer.

He paused after the third one, staring at Harry’s torso. Harry, so hard he was hurting, shifted again at the gaze. It looked . . . hungry. He’d never thought his body was special. Ginny didn’t seem to think so, and she’d had more to compare it to. But . . . .

Suddenly, he was flat on his back with a smooth body above him. Darwin grabbed his jaw in both hands and pulled his face up into a kiss. A _kiss_? That wasn’t just talk. Harry opened his mouth to protest, and a tongue slid inside and started lubricating his tonsils. His cock definitely approved of this, and without meaning to, Harry arched his back and pushed himself against Darwin, lurching straight into Darwin’s groin.

Oh . . . my . . . _god_ that was good. He reflexively wrapped his legs around the other’s, gripping them just as Darwin had described. And the other moaned. Harry was not used to making someone moan, except for a short time during the war, and that was from his hexes. Darwin had unzipped his trousers at some point, and Harry pulled them down hastily as he attempted to undo his own. In a few seconds, he felt damp silk, and through it a wet cock rubbing against his own. Harry had not been able to find clean pants quickly that morning and had opted for none over being late. The thought of those lacy knickers the only barrier between Darwin’s cock and his own bits made him whine. Once he started whining, he couldn’t seem to stop. He found himself pushing up and down against Darwin’s leg, gasping at each change in pressure.

Darwin grabbed his hand. “Puh . . . puh . . . .puhleeze,” he gasped. “You’re not some kind of annoying little lapdog, and I’m not a visitor you can hump. Give me a second.”

Harry, his brain completely gone southward, did not understand Darwin’s point. He allowed himself to be pushed away, frustrated. But Darwin wasn’t planning to frustrate, it seemed. He slid out of his pants quickly and then paused to stare at Harry, looking up at him from the couch.

“I want you,” he said, and there was no deliberate sexiness in his voice at all. If anything, it sounded surprised and bewildered, though hungry. “I want you badly. Can I fuck you? Do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes!” Harry wanted it all, and now. Definitely, now. Darwin laughed a little, and sat up. He looked thoughtful for one instant, and then grabbed Harry and pulled him face down onto the floor.

On a significantly larger and therefore more convenient surface, Darwin seemed to have decided to take control. He stretched himself across Harry’s body, face near Harry’s arse. He shoved a hand between Harry’s legs, and pushed up. Harry felt a long finger under his balls, a thumb against his arsehole, and a couple of others dancing wherever. His whines took on an intensity as he felt his balls tighten. 

Darwin’s hand left him for a short period of time, and he felt a digit swipe across his already-wet cock. Then it was back, the thumb slick now, and then . . . then it was _inside_ him, a moment of incredibly intense pleasure edged with pain. He felt it push up, hard, and then he was coming; shouting and coming, unable to stop either the sound or the involuntary pumping of his hips into Darwin’s experienced hand. 

He was shocked how little time he’d taken. He’d never felt so out of control. It almost terrified him. He tried to twist away from the fingers which seemed to understand his crotch so well. Unfortunately, part of his body liked them there and wanted to stay close by. Harry ended up making a series of little panting noises and then relaxed, breathing hard, letting Darwin’s hand stroke him, carefully light on his hyper sensitive parts.

“So you like that?”

He jerked reflexively. He’d been far away, recovering from that orgasm, and the other’s presence had been . . . well, not forgotten, but naturalised. He felt lovely, this bloke did. All was good. Now he had to come back to the world and take care of things again.

He sighed, and nodded. Hard to lie about something like that, with an eyewitness asking.

There was perhaps a minute more of rest. Darwin’s hand was stroking his belly, oddly gentle; Harry wouldn’t have expected something that felt almost affectionate from someone just selling his sexual skills. Then Darwin said, in that sultry voice again, “Would you like to suck me off?” 

Harry would like. He was surprised how much he wanted to. He’d never even thought of doing such a thing -- but why not? Harry slid down Darwin’s body, over a silky belly, till there was a hard length on his lips and a soft, velvety ball against his cheek. He licked reflexively, bringing out a shudder in Darwin. Then he set to work learning what balls felt and tasted like. He thought that he must always have wondered, because they seemed familiar in his mouth, as though they belonged there. He liked the little noises Darwin was making, too. He experimented with mouth variations, and was rewarded with a flow of noises that sounded as if Darwin were trying to sing an atonal modern song while someone was whipping him. Harry snickered, and let his mouth return to what Darwin had requested.

Ginny had agreed to try this with him, a couple of times, and though she hadn’t liked it, Harry had. Even with only a couple of experiences, he knew what would feel good and what didn’t. He held Darwin’s hips down with his hands and set to work enthusiastically. He couldn’t imagine why Ginny hadn’t liked it. There was nothing more wonderful he’d ever done, than hold someone’s prick in his mouth and have them totally at his whim. He could get a rhythm going, and their whimpers and moans would stabilise; he could surprise with a hard suck or a light brush of teeth, and get a roar or curses. The cock felt wonderful in his mouth, like smooth leather over a hard core -- like a bobby’s nightstick, and wasn’t _that_ a turn on, all by itself. There wasn’t any strong taste to it; if he had been going to describe the texture and flavour, he’d have picked “egg white.” But best of all were Darwin’s moans, begging him for more, harder, faster, slower, gently, no _hard_! And legs that had crossed over Harry’s back to offer him the best access, trembling as Darwin apparently completely surrendered to sensation . . . to Harry. 

Harry rewarded the surrender by wetting a finger and sliding it into Darwin as he continued to suck. Darwin began bucking, and once he started, he couldn’t stop till Harry tasted semen, thick in his throat, and heard screaming that didn’t let up for longer than Harry would have thought possible. Darwin just lay there, panting, for awhile after that. Then he raised his head and stared at Harry. “Finish it.”

“I’m not sure what there is to finish,” Harry said doubtfully. “You seem to have finished already.”

‘God, no, P . . . puhleeze fuck me, _please_.”

Harry admitted to himself that somewhere in the process of getting Darwin off, he’d pretty much got himself interested all over again. “I don’t know how.”

“Use your imagination, dammit. Or at least your instincts. _Fuck_ me.”

It was so imperious, Harry got harder. This almost endless erection reminded him of sixth year, when _nothing_ he did seemed to stop it for more than a few minutes. “I’ll show _you_ ,” he thought, confusedly blurring between the rentboy Darwin and the infinitely more infuriating 6th-year Draco Malfoy, whom he’d somehow managed to follow despite his damned insatiable cock and the helpful Ginny. He’d gotten so frustrated by hunting Draco that confused images of him, snarking at Harry, trapping him, duelling him, sneaking around on him, actually appeared during his trysts with his girlfriend – and a number of times when he was wanking. And this Darwin had the same smirk . . . 

He shoved Darwin down, hard, rolled him onto his stomach, and threw himself on top of him. 

“You asked for it, you got it,” Harry snarled. He hadn’t done this before, but how different could it be? He poked at a dry, unyielding entrance, and felt a bit more doubtful.

Darwin bucked, but not from pleasure. “Stop!” he growled. “I’m not a _girl_.”

Harry thought that would have gone without saying, so he moaned, the nearest to begging he could do. Deep in lust, he forced himself backward, though his hips kept bucking forward. He was too frustrated to be coherent. Fortunately, Darwin did not appear to have that problem. He sat up and dived into a bedside drawer.

“This,” he hissed, and whether he was angry or desperate was impossible to tell, “is lube. If you put your cock somewhere there’s no natural lube, use it. Always. Or you’re going to hurt someone big time. In this case, me.”

Harry reached for the lube, panting. Darwin held it out of his reach, and held up his other hand.

“Now _this_ is a condom. I trust you’ve used _them_ before? This is one of those activities that could give you hepatitis C or HIV, _Neville_. Not to mention all sorts of minor infections.”

No, Harry had never used one of those before, though the Muggle-borns in his dorm had played with them around him. He’d been too shy to ask them how. With Ginny, there had been spells, and Ginny took care of them. He took the little package from Darwin and peered at it. Seamus and Dean had blown them up like balloons, so he knew they should fit; he wasn’t _that_ big.

Darwin glared at him, then snatched it out of his hands and ripped it open. He froze for an instant, taking deep breaths, then reached for Harry’s cock. He paused just before he touched it, and looked at Harry’s face, which Harry suspected looked guilty and ashamed. That “you should always be perfect” thing again.

Darwin’s own face showed concern, and a bit of sheepishness. “Look – don’t worry about it. It just hurt a bit, and I reacted.” 

Harry nodded, still uncomfortable until Darwin’s long fingers slid around his shaft. Then he just closed his eyes and groaned. Darwin rolled the condom down as if he’d done that a million times – well, in his profession, he likely had. The condom felt a little strange; Harry’s cock was not quite as interested now, between the unusual feeling and Darwin’s temper. Then Darwin was stroking on lube, and his erection appeared to decide that being dressed for this was just fine. Juuuuuuust . . . fiiiiiiiine . . .

Darwin looked at Harry’s face again, then fell on his back and put his legs up. He pulled Harry down to him. “Fuck me,” he said, and Harry’s lust was back on high.

He slid in. It was a bit more difficult than he was used to with Ginny, but that was . . . oh, that was more than made up for by the squeezing feeling. Every nerve end on his cock was being pushed at once, and he hadn’t even moved. Experimentally, he lifted his hips and pushed deeper. The pleasure became unbearable. The only relief he could find was to do it again. And again. Harry felt himself slide up and down the passage, clutching Darwin’s muscled hips for balance. Darwin wrapped his legs around Harry’s back, heels against Harry’s arse so tightly there’d be bruises. He bit Harry’s shoulder. Harry grunted, and thrust harder.

Darwin’s cock was pressed between them, rolling against their bellies each time Harry thrust. It felt better than anything he could remember. This was a cock. He was fucking another man. There was something in him that had always felt apart from Ginny, even in the deepest passion, when they were in love and new to each other. He’d assumed that it was just his separation from the rest of the world. But there was no separation here; everything felt exactly as it should be, just what he wanted, though he hadn’t known. Harry was wrapped around a man, a man’s arse was wrapped around his cock, and—oh Merlin, he was . . . he was _coming_. No, this time he was coming _apart._

It was even more amazing than the last time. He clutched Darwin’s shoulders, terrified of his body’s abandonment to pleasure. He’d never been out of control like this. He whimpered, almost panicked, felt warm wetness on his belly, and heard Darwin shout. He rode it out for what seemed minutes . . . no, years, then fell limply onto Darwin’s chest.

Harry moaned, trying to apologise but unable to form words. He lay there, gasping and whimpering, too overwhelmed to move.

Then, Harry felt himself rolled over to his side, pulled tight to Darwin’s chest. There was a reassuring hand spread across the back of his head, supporting it. “All right, p-p-pretty. For your first time, you did very nicely.” Harry moved his head to rest on the other’s chest, noticed a nipple near his nose and licked it, then closed his eyes and let Darwin be in charge. It was remarkable how liberating that felt. Harry’d been the one in charge of almost everything once Dumbledore was dead.

Darwin adjusted one more time, and Harry was lying mostly next to him now, his head comfortably resting on Darwin’s chest, an arm sprawled across, and a sense of rightness and peace coming over him. _So, Mill, do you ever get tired of being right?_ he thought. A closet case indeed. He’d gone without sex for almost three years now, and hadn’t missed it much. It had gotten him off, but never felt quite . . . well, he’d always wondered what the big deal was. But this . . . He needed more of this _soon_ . . . tomorrow, at the latest. A bloke. Definitely a bloke. Darwin smelled of familiar things: arousal, maleness, semen. There was also something else elusively familiar; he couldn’t quite place it, but for some reason it reminded him of his youth. He let it wash over him and stopped thinking.

Darwin was stroking his shoulder, almost tenderly. Harry kissed a nipple again absentmindedly, resisted the urge to start licking and sucking in order to determine if Darwin were truly played out, and settled into sleep. Just before he drowsed off, one question emerged.

_How am I going to interrogate him after this?_

**][o][o][o][o][**

In the middle of the night, Harry woke to sounds he hadn’t heard since the war – cracks of apparition, several of them. He reacted on instinct alone. He called his wand to him (it had to disentangle from his jacket sleeve, where he kept it) and cast _Protego_ on the bed as he opened his eyes.

Three red flashes arched away from them. He felt the mattress sink, and then Darwin had leaped up and towards the door. The robed figures aimed at him, and Harry _accioed_ every wand in the room. He hadn’t tried that before, and got smacked in the face by two wands as he ducked two others. The interlopers, who were thrown off balance when their wands headed for Harry, staggered.

Darwin dived back toward Harry, and reached for a wand. Harry wasn’t about to let any Muggle touch one. He snarled “ _Stupefy_ ,” and let Darwin’s body flop onto the bed. He leaped up, the feeling of magic electric around him as adrenalin kicked in, and sent a series of nasty Auror curses at them.

They seemed to be protected from those. Harry swore and grabbed Darwin. He wished he’d been a bit better prepared – what the attackers knew might be useful, if he could manage to get in a position to question them. But discretion being the better part of valour, he Apparated instead, using the Auror side-along grip.

He landed in his own room, and dropped a still frozen Darwin to the floor. Both of them were still naked. Damn it – he _liked_ his jacket. Nor would Mill ever let him forget it if he lost it and she found out how. He cast a _Finite Incantatem_ on the supine Muggle as he walked to the wooden cupboard for clothes.

After earlier this night, he had a pretty good idea of Darwin’s body size. Legs a bit longer, torso slightly shorter, a trifle more solid than himself. Harry didn’t have any especially large clothes -- Mill had long ago forced him to toss everything he’d worn at Hogwarts except his ties and his dress robes, and the last jumper Mrs. Weasley had made for him. So he went for his longest jeans, the ones a trifle worn at the hems because he stepped on them occasionally, and a blue jumper Ginny had made for him one Christmas. She was a much more tasteful knitter than her mother, but he’d never liked it because of the too-high neck. Darwin’s neck was longer than his, and it should be more comfortable for him.

Harry had no lacy underwear to give Darwin, and it was amazing how much that bothered him. It just didn’t seem right to see Darwin in men’s pants. But even if he’d the nerve to steal a pair of Millicent’s knickers, they would be much too big for him. She wasn’t exactly the lace type anyway. Harry secretly suspected her of owning and wearing leather knickers and bra. Or boxers, and no bra. Whatever.

Harry located a sixpack of Y-fronts Mrs. Weasley had bought him for Christmas a couple of years ago. He didn’t wear them, but it would have been wrong to throw them out --- giving someone pants was such a motherly thing. He wondered what she’d have said if he’d told her he’d rather wear nothing. 

Even after Harry removed the _Stupefy_ , Darwin hadn’t moved. Harry went over to check him. His blue eyes were wide open, lit with shocked surprise. Well, he _was_ a Muggle. Harry turned his back to Darwin and hastily transfigured the Y-fronts into something a bit sexier. They were now lilac, trimmed with grey lace and a grey silk ribbon bow, with a little pink heart right over Darwin’s arsehole. Their basic structure was still Y-front, however. McGonagall hadn’t really spent much class time on transfiguring male and female clothes into each other.

Then he helped Darwin to sit up, and handed him the knickers _cum_ Y-fronts and the other clothes he’d gathered. Darwin looked at the Y-fronts and burst out laughing.

“Special order?” he asked, and Harry blushed.

**][o][o][o][o][**

_Dear Mill, wherever you are:_

_I begin to doubt you’re getting my owls. I came to that conclusion at an unpleasantly rushed pace, after I was attacked in my bed by three of the wizards you mentioned to me. I was fast asleep after a rigorous hour or so, but my partner-for-the-evening fortunately was a wizard, and had good enough reflexes to shield us both and then get us out of there._

_Where the FUCK are you? Lila needs her mum, and no, I have no plans WHATEVER to sleep in the same bed with her – I always thought that was kind of a pervy habit of yours. (But then, with your Muggle mom, I suppose it was to be expected you’d yield to a Muggle child raising fad.) However, she isn’t screaming or starving to death, mostly owing to the care of the overgrown freckle Potter has sitting with her. After our sudden transport, he dressed and went to talk to his weaselly friend, and now that poor nearly-pure blood child is living in what I have no doubt is a rat hole with Quidditch posters pasted to every wall. Still, I think she’ll be safer there than with Wonder Boy._

_I realise that I’ve revealed to you who was in my bed, and you may be a bit disappointed in me. It’s a long story – would you believe I needed the cash? Thought not. I can’t wait until the Chosen Git remembers he’s supposed to pay for the pleasure of my company. I’m betting I can get him incoherent in less than a minute._

_\--D_

_PS – Did you know “Uncle Harry” is gay as a maypole? Neither did he. Possibly, nor does he yet. I’d flee screaming, not being fond of denial myself, but he has a certain look on his face and I am beginning to hope that you are the snitch he’s looking for. He’s always been good at getting what he wants._

_PPS -- I do NOT want to end up reading fairy stories to a little girl for the rest of the best part of my life. Nor do I want The Boy Who Lives to Annoy Me taking charge of her upbringing, and turning her into a Gryffindor – or worse, a Hufflepuff. Does this disappearing have anything to do with the vampire you were dating? I told you she was trouble._

_PPPS: He likes me in knickers. He tried to transfigure a pair for me when he thought I wasn’t looking. He was pants at it (pun intended) and they are tri-coloured and look like boys’ pants with lace sewn on and a heart in . . . well, I suppose I must call it “the right place.”_


	3. The Plot Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's a little thick too. But he's getting there.

Harry stared at his pot of tea a long time, thinking. It was quiet this morning, without Lila. She’d been a helpful distraction. But Ron would keep her safe, and Harry could adapt his schedule as necessary. Apparently, he’d lucked out in his choice of which prostitute to interrogate; it couldn’t be just a coincidence that Hit Wizards had invaded their bedroom.

His mind wandered, as it had been for the last hour. “Interrogation.” He couldn’t remember a single question he’d asked the rentboy, other than his name and if they could go to his place. Oh yes, and “what am I supposed to do?” Robards was right – he wasn’t cut out to be an Auror. If Darwin had turned out to be an enemy, he’d have Harry almost completely at his mercy.

Harry’s skin felt different. Perhaps that was an effect of the potion as well. Every millimetre of it prickled with awareness. When he touched the skin of his hand, it was as though someone else were touching it – a lover, not simply a friend. He pulled a lock of his longish hair and it was as though someone he wanted to kiss were pulling him closer. All over his body – torso and the most intimate bits – there was an odd doubled awareness, as if his body were smugly remembering the touch of a stranger’s hand, and longing for it again. The khakis and oxford shirt he was wearing to look like a reasonably well-dressed Muggle when he went back for more investigating today were comfortable but made him uncomfortably aware of his skin. Only his wand up his sleeve was familiar. 

Harry heard Darwin moving about in the room, presumably dressing, and noted, as if he were separate from his body but intensely aware of it, how his cock hardened at the thought. He had to get over this. Quickly, before Darwin came in.

He slugged down his third cup of tea – lots of sugar, no cream, a habit he’d gotten into on stakeouts where calories and caffeine alone could keep him going. Okay, there were two possibilities. One, Darwin had taken a potion which affected Harry’s desire. In that case, wanting another male was chemically induced. Wanting Darwin in particular was also chemically induced. He’d have to find an antidote; counterspells weren’t very useful on potions.

Two, Harry was gay. In which case, he’d been very, very unprofessional, and if anyone found out, his arse would be out the door, closely followed by the rest of him.

It occurred to him that there was a third probability – one and two could _both_ be correct. In that case, he supposed he could emphasize the takeover by potion, and de-emphasize his own sexuality. If he had any. Until last night, he’d thought he just had a low libido. Now, he knew girls didn’t do it for him. Okay, regardless of one, two was definitely true. What did he do now? Obviously, if there weren’t a potion involved, he could and should be absolutely professional. Just because he had liked shagging Darwin didn’t mean he’d make it a habit or anything.

Darwin slouched into the kitchen, clad in Harry’s jeans and transfigured pants, which hit his natural waistline while the trousers were pulled down a bit on his hips. Harry could see the little silk bow just below Darwin’s navel – since he wore no shirt, the effect was stunning. Harry stared at Darwin’s middle, and lost track of his careful reasoning. Two nights wouldn’t be a habit, surely. Especially since it would be daytime today. Part of the same 24 hours, really. Just a one-day deviation . . . 

Darwin yawned widely, then sat at the table, clearly expecting to be served. Harry got him a cup and put a teabag in it. 

“No coffee?”

“I’m pants at coffee.”

Darwin sighed. “Two teabags, please.”

He drank it black, Harry noticed. A full-fledged caffeine delivery system. After Darwin drained his cup, he glared at Harry, then stared at the cup. Harry turned on the kettle again. Having a Muggle around was odd; he even had to heat tea the way they did at the Dursleys. Good thing Lila wasn’t staying here today, or she would doubtless comment on it. He wondered what Mill, with all her Muggle friends, did to keep Lila from pointing out non-magical behaviour.

After the second cup of tea, and two slightly stale scones from the last time Harry’d been to the bakery, Darwin looked a bit more alert, and friendlier. “Good morning,” he said.

Harry smiled, hoping he looked friendly and helpful, like the Good Auror in interrogation practice. “Did you sleep well?”

“It wasn’t as easy to fall asleep the second time.” For some reason, the way Darwin looked at Harry made him blush. He didn’t know how to respond, or even bring up the subject of last night, so he utilised a newly-acquired skill from Auror training and didn’t say anything.

“I suppose I should be leaving,” Darwin said, stretching. Harry tried not to notice how liquid his movements were, or how the light from the kitchen window fell just perfectly to emphasize his chest with shadows in its hollows.

“Must you?” Harry guiltily remembered the lack of interrogation he’d done. Between the aphrodisiac potion and the brush with death last night, Darwin definitely should not be leaving.

“I’ve got a living to earn, don’t I?” His lids lowered as he looked at Harry meaningfully. Harry only remembered that minute that the activity with Darwin had been a paid transaction.

“Ummmm, I have some money if . . . I mean, I’ll pay you to stay awhile longer,” he stammered, and then blushed thoroughly. 

“You do know how much the going rate is by the hour, don’t you, P-p-pretty?” 

Harry thought perhaps his skin would explode with the degree of flushing from embarrassment. Which would at least make things easier. “Ummm . . . well, actually, no. I haven’t ever . . . er . . . hired . . . um . . . negotiated the services of . . .“ he trailed off, considering the noun for this horrendously awkward sentence. “A sex worker,” he finally said, hoping it was the neutral term Mill had seemed to think it was.

Darwin looked amused again. He seemed to find Harry quite funny. _I know what you look like naked,_ Harry thought vengefully, just to keep himself anchored. But that led to other thoughts and memories, and he veered away from them.

“Going rate is at least a hundred quid an hour,” Darwin said. “For overnights – there’s a discount, since we weren’t actually doing anything some of the time. And then there’s the virgin surcharge, and it’s customary to tip as well.”

Harry considered this. It was a lot more money than he’d expected. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Let me get the money.” He stood up, to find his Muggle money lockbox, and was surprised to feel Darwin’s hand wrap around his knee.

“No, wait.”

“What?” Maybe he should try Darwin’s caffeine delivery system. Maybe it was sugar slowing his thought processes down. Or maybe it was the blood rushing to a lower extremity which shouldn’t be participating in his . . . interrogation.

“Just sit down, Potter.” 

Harry sat down. Considered another cup of tea – and then the penny dropped. He stared at the blond Muggle, whose face he knew he’d never seen before in his life.

Someone was setting him up.

“Who’s paying you?” he asked, and his wand was out and against Darwin’s neck as he spoke. His boss might call him arrogant, or foolish, or rebellious, or whatever, but no one could say Harry Potter wasn’t quick on the draw or couldn’t do a hex on the flyby. Those who thought they _could_ say it were all dead.

“ _Paying_ me? For what? Put that stick away, Potter, you might put someone’s eye out with that thing.”

Harry remembered that a Muggle wouldn’t feel a threat from a wand. But it was highly unlikely Darwin was, after all, a Muggle. Between his attackers last night and the fact he hadn’t moved since Harry drew his wand, the odds were good he was a wizard.

“Let’s see what the stick will do, shall we? Incarcer—“

“Protego!” Darwin interrupted reflexively. No shield appeared, but since Darwin was clearly wandless that wasn’t surprising. Harry smirked.

“It appears you know a bit much for a Muggle. A protection spell, and my name. Again – who’s paying you?”

“No one,” Darwin snarled. He glared at Harry for nearly a minute, but Harry had been in stare-downs with the best and didn’t flinch. Finally, Darwin heaved a sigh. “Try _Finite Incantatem_ on me, Potter, if you think you can handle that.”

Harry tried one, but all that happened was that Darwin’s hair got longer.

“Shit.” Darwin thought about it. “Okay, you may have trouble with this one. “Zavershit’ zaklinanie.”

Harry chewed that one over a couple of times, then tried silent magic, not trusting his mouth to pronounce it anywhere near what Darwin had said. _“Zavershit’ Zaklinanie.”_

Darwin’s face and body began changing – not as oddly as when Polyjuice wore off, but more as if a layer of a photo were being erased. Underneath, he was actually better looking, Harry couldn’t help noticing. His chest was just a trifle deeper, his legs were a little longer yet . . . it was as though a notice-me-not potion had been included before, because this body you had to notice. There were more scars, all of them old ones, but they did not particularly detract. But it was the face that changed the most; the blue, round eyes faded to a light grey, and became more oval, and less innocent; the round features sharpened, and the lips thinned just a bit. Darwin looked a few years older now, Harry’s own age. 

Had a stranger been watching, even he would have known that here was a man infinitely more dangerous than he had seemed 10 minutes ago. Since it was Harry, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. He hadn’t seen that face for years now, but he knew it well. He knew where the scars on this man’s chest had been made, and when, because he had made them himself.

“You better have a good explanation, Malfoy,” he said grimly. “Because my first temptation is to Obliviate you and then kill you.” He realised his hand was shaking when he saw the wand wavering. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“That’s not what you said last night.” The attempt at humour trailed off as Draco saw Harry react. 

“I told you, Obliviate, then kill. Did you think I didn’t mean it? Aurors have ways to disappear people, you know.” 

Draco put both his hands up, never taking his eyes from Harry’s face. It occurred to Harry that never, since his 11th birthday, had he seen Draco surrender. Hermione had told Harry that he had become a lot scarier since Dumbledore’s death. Maybe it was true.

He should have been pleased to have finally – finally! – intimidated Draco Malfoy. But for some reason, he felt a kind of discomfort instead of the expected pleasure. Malfoy had always been a fighter – could always be counted on to snark at him, and to retaliate at anything Harry threw at him. These days, except for Mill and Lila, everyone seemed a little scared of him. He didn’t feel different – but apparently he was, if even Draco Malfoy were afraid of him.

Harry lowered his wand. “I only meant that you should put your hands on the table, Malfoy. So, tell me – why the glamour charm, and why, for Merlin’s sake, last night?”

Malfoy put his hands on the table and stared at them. “It’s not a glamour, Potter. It’s just theatrical magic. That’s what I was studying in Russia.”

“Answer the question.”

“I suppose it never occurred to you that my family’s assets were all frozen, and I might just have needed the galleons?”

Harry considered this. “We assumed the Malfoys had cash stashed in banks around the world, and freezing their British assets would do very little to your wealth.” He frowned. “Not to mention that with talent and training in theatrical magic, finding a job shouldn’t be a hard task.”

“Nobody hires an ex Death Eater.”

“You received amnesty.”

“Legal amnesty isn’t the same.” Malfoy began to look testy. “So the government won’t kill you. Maybe after years of bureaucracy, they’ll even unfreeze your assets. In the meantime, how much amnesty do you think the wizarding world will give someone like me? Not only associated with Voldemort, but my father was one of his inner circle. Can you see Florian Fortescue hiring me to scoop ice cream? Or what a scandal it would be for any wizarding theatre to employ me? No, survival meant family funds or illegal income.”

“Why me?”

He shrugged. “You approached _me_.”

“Yeah, but you must have recognised me.”

“An incoherent stranger with messy hair, geeky glasses, and the worst fashion sense in the Commonwealth? Hard not to.”

“So you were just afflicted with an overwhelming sexual need for a former schoolmate?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. I knew you could pay. Speaking of which . . . “

“What?”

“You haven’t yet.”

Harry flushed to, he suspected, his toes. He’d forgotten that this was a transaction. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it before you leave here.”

“The longer I stay, the more it’ll cost you.”

Harry wondered if he’d wandered into a looking glass universe. “How much if there’s no sex involved?”

“Why would you want to keep me around if there’s no sex involved?” The snark was missing – Malfoy seemed genuinely puzzled.

“I’m an Auror now, Malfoy.” 

“I heard.”

“I’m investigating the possibility of Dark potions being disseminated among . . . sex workers. Like yourself.” It felt awful to say that, and Harry wondered why. Darwin had seemed totally right as a rent boy – ordinary, friendly, snappish only when in pain, not completely jaded yet by sex. But for Malfoy, it was all wrong. Malfoy was silk boxers and designer robes and expensive jewellery – not girls’ knickers. Though admittedly the knickers . . . but Harry’s body reminded him he had best not dwell on the knickers. 

“So I’m under investigation?”

“Not exactly. I was thinking more that you could, er . . . assist me in my investigations.”

“Is that a euphemism for I’m under suspicion, but not officially?”

“Look, Malfoy.” Harry was unsurprised to hear his voice turning cold and tough. The advantage of being angry was that it made him less self unconscious, and he could speak better. “The only suspicions I have of you is that you’re a git, and that you may be using an illegal potion in order to facilitate transactions with your . . . customers. I have no suspicion of you beyond that, so I’d advise you not to try to annoy me.”

Malfoy glared back. “You’d think there definitely was something suspicious if I DIDN’T annoy you, Potter. As to illegal potions – I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Do you think I habitually get involved with my informants?”

“I have no idea what you habitually do, other than jump to conclusions. But you can’t blame last night on a potion, you bastard.”

Harry let it drop. He had his doubts, but Malfoy could be useful.

“So you need money, huh?”

“Yeah, and if you keep skipping from subject to subject, I’m going to need a script.”

“Stuff it. I can pay you to help investigate. You were always reasonably bright.”

“I’m overwhelmed by the encomium.”

“Well, will you do it? It would probably be a benefit to your . . . . career, you know – there are dark potions being distributed, and pros . . . sex workers are disappearing.”

Malfoy looked thoughtful. “I’ve heard a bit about disappearances.”

“Well, your job would be to informally ask around and talk to find out who knows something.”

“Abundantly precise.”

“You sound like Snape.” They both were silent then, for a moment, remembering the death of their potions professor. Harry shrugged the memory off more quickly – but then, he’d gotten used to putting deaths away in a tidy storage compartment of his mind labelled “ _to grieve – open after retirement.”_

“Well, I can’t be precise because the investigation is just beginning. It might be easier if we did it together for a couple of days.” Harry replayed that sentence. “I mean . . . practiced investigating.”

There it was again, the smirk that had looked so mysterious on “Darwin’s” features, so natural where it was. “I knew what you meant, Potter.”

**][o][o][o][o][**

_Mill –_

_Well, you may not be getting these missives, but for some reason it helps to keep producing them and sending them off into the beyond with Guenever. Potter and I are now officially investigating the mysterious disappearances you were so upset about. You’ll be glad to know that your crusading rants actually helped me understand what Potter was talking about. Maybe you’re more of an Auror than I thought. He seems as inept as ever._

_He’s offered me a job. I was right – he got incredibly embarrassed by the fact that I’m renting by the hour (as if he could afford me, if I really were!) so I helped him out by specifying a lump sum I would accept every week instead, sex not included, and the original night waived since, after all, he did save my life. I couldn’t really see myself charging him for the sex._

_No, I don’t know why I made it easy on him. My father would have wanted me to stick it to Potter, any way I could, but my mother, much the more intelligent of my parents (they bred for brains in the Blacks, and beauty in the Malfoys) used to say that if you allow someone to pay you, no matter what the reason, you have become a servant to him. Of course, my mother also used to call the Dark Lord “just a trifle déclassé, my dear. “I shudder to think what she would have called Potter’s and my encounter last night. If she were dead, she’d be turning over in her grave – but instead, she’s presumably turning over in her bed and greeting whatever young lovely is inhabiting it today._

_So off we go this afternoon to talk to real, actual sex workers. Potter suggested that I might like to start with my friends, but the only one I know in this city who might know anything is that vampire you were dating – even though she creeps me out. The red eyes remind me of you-know-who. The staring at my neck all the time she talked to me kind of creeped me out too._

_Okay, Mill, write back with the lecture on open-mindedness. Or anything you want. Just write back. In case you’re wondering, Lila is temporarily living with The Weasel. For some reason, she seems to like him – no, I know the reason. He spends his day watching telly, consumes popcorn and beer for tea, and occasionally does something apparently brilliant (go figure!) to fulfil his contracts with the MOM Analytical Team, providing him with enough money to take Lila out and spoil her appetite for anything but more popcorn and beer. It’s not an Unspeakable job – just not worth speaking of, since it’s Weasley. Lila is enjoying herself, however. I actually hope he draws the line at giving her beer. (This is all Potter information, so you decide if he’s being truthful. I had a very difficult time getting the information out of him without his asking why I wanted to know.)_

_He’s gone off to get my wand, secreted who knows where in this strangely large two bedroom apartment. The thought of being dependent on Potter’s abilities for my protection makes me choke… . I hear movements in the kitchen, so I think we’re off to talk to people about some dark potion thing. Potter, for some reason, is convinced it’s a love potion illicitly being sold to Muggles. Potter, of course, is crackers._

_Anxiously, D._

**][o][o][o][o][**

Harry squirmed on the cold seat of the folding chair. Draco, his long blond hair tied tightly back and an old T-shirt of Harry’s hiding both his navel and his underwear, sprawled casually on the leather couch. Harry thought he looked like the pictures of famous Muggle computer designers in Petunia’s old _Star_ magazines.

They both watched the six-foot receptionist, who wore a pink leather miniskirt and a black silk top, tied loosely under her breasts and making it abundantly clear that they were otherwise uncontained. She wore three inch stiletto heels, and Harry wondered how she could manage to walk firmly around the room, slamming the stilettos into the tile floors. There was a constant click click click, like a percussion solo if the drummer had dropped a drumstick. He would have thought she was trying to hypnotise them, or possibly drive them insane, but there was no taste of magic. He couldn’t see why she had to walk so much – she’d walk past Harry, shove something into a file, and then move on back to her desk. _Can’t she just be more organised?_ Harry thought irritably. _She could carry all the files over after she’s sorted them, and save a lot of time and energy._ Robards had sent him to enough time management courses, trying to increase his efficiency, that he at least knew the theory.

She passed close to Harry each time; close enough that her heavy perfume made his nose twitch, and her silky sleeve brushed his hair. He was beginning to get annoyed.

He pushed his chair a little farther back against the wall, to leave her more space which she apparently needed, and prudently tucked his trainers under the seat. He was not good enough at healing to be sure he could mend a 3-inch spike through his foot. The move meant he looked up, and his eyes fell on Draco. Harry realised Draco was smirking. At Harry. 

It had been a long day. They had started interrogations at 9 a.m. Draco had seemed to pick people who might be involved almost at random from the streets. When Harry grumbled, he’d replied, “How the fuck many people do you think are _out_ here at 9 in the morning looking for johns, Potter?” Fortunately there were a few. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to know much of anything, even under a Veritas spell and the little Legilimency Harry could manage even now. 

It was a good beginning to training Draco, however. Harry wanted to leave it all up to Draco, so that in a day or two he could start doing some serious searching for Mill. He had decided to be a journalist for the _Times of London_ , a paper he had seen once or twice although it had never entered the Dursleys’ door unless there was a visitor they wished to impress. Draco smirked at him, but then, what else was new? “You come up with your own cover, then,” Harry had snapped.

The first boy they met looked promising. He was nowhere near as attractive as Draco had been yesterday – he wore ripped jeans and several layers of shirt, and eyeliner. The eyeliner had run a bit in the London rain, and he was coatless and shivering. He told them his name was Anthony.

Draco made the transaction. “My friend’s a journalist, doing background,” he said. “My name’s Draco Malfoy. I’m an associate professor at an obscure American university, doing research on sabbatical. I’m interested in telling the stories of London, and so far, have been talking to far too many dull, respectable people.”

Harry was rather impressed. Apparently people doing illegal things were occasionally glad to talk to anyone who wanted to listen, so long as it wouldn’t get to the wrong ears. They kept asking Draco, “Are you sure your friend won’t tell our names?”

Draco would answer mysteriously, “Oh no, it’s on deep background.”

Between interviews, Harry pulled Draco against an alley wall and said quietly, “What the fuck’s deep background?”

“It means you won’t tell,” Draco said, looking down at Harry through half shut eyelids.

“How do you know that stuff?”

“Haven’t you ever watched old Muggle movies? All the reporters say it.”

They’d met, as far as Harry was concerned, far too many young, glassy-eyed kids, 14 or 15, who were willing to do the most amazing things for very little money. At Draco’s suggestion, he gave them a couple of quid each, and they were quite happy to sit over a free lunch or tea – Harry drew the line at giving kids that young and so obviously already drugged any additional chemicals, even just lager – and chat about life on the London streets . . . leading inexorably to the kinds of things a street kid did to get by – for recreation and income. 

Malfoy took notes. Harry couldn’t believe it. Malfoy’s notes were small and precise, just as they had been at Hogwarts. 

“Can’t you just remember the important things?” he asked impatiently. 

Malfoy varied his smirk with a sneer – another familiar expression, though a bit strange on a grown man. Finally Harry realised Malfoy looked frighteningly like Lucius, now fortunately gone where very bad people went when they died. “Potter, what city was Anthony born in?”

“Why would that be an important thing?”

“Where did Jason take a holiday this year?”

“Some beach resort.”

“Why did Quentin start using heroin?”

“Which one was Quentin, now?”

“Potter,” Malfoy said, “don’t take this the wrong way. As an Auror, you stink.”

Harry thought about this. Not the content, which under the circumstances might be fair comment, but the fact that Malfoy sounded much like Mill, including a rather amused objectivity.

“Why do you say that?”

He’d never seen that precise look on Malfoy’s face – a sort of astonishment, and a relaxing of some barrier Harry hadn’t realised was there. “I beg your pardon, Potter, but did you just ask me why I’d said something?”

Harry did not feel this was an amusing conversation to take place in London drizzle. “I’m all grown up, Malfoy. My hormones have adjusted since I was a teenager. I don’t have as many buttons to push as I used to. So do you want to answer the question?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Investigation of any kind – any research – has to be systematic. If you don’t go linearly down and build your information, you’re not going to have a case. You can’t just convince the Ministry to trust your hunches.”

Harry, who had always strongly resented that they didn’t, and had said so often during the War, grunted. “I managed to find out what I needed to beat Voldemort.”

“No doubt. But you were an amateur then. The rules for employed people – especially people employed by the Ministry – are rather stricter. You have to follow procedures.”

He watched Harry’s face, then, and must have seen something Harry was definitely not intending to share, because Malfoy grabbed his elbow and dragged him across the street to a pub. “Coffee,” he said to the barmaid, and when it came, dumped a handful of sugar in and handed it to Harry. “Drink.”

“I don’t – “

“I don’t care if you don’t usually drink it sweet. There’s milk if you want, but drink it. You look like hell, Potter.”

Harry sat down and wrapped his hands around the mug. “You’ve changed too, Malfoy.”

“Well, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all have stayed nasty little 15 year olds, but it doesn’t work that way.” Malfoy suddenly smiled – a genuine smile. It looked faintly familiar, but Harry couldn’t think of anyone else who smiled like that. It made him think about . . . bad things, like last night. And . . . oh shite, there was a little grey silk ribbon dangling over Malfoy’s (well, Harry’s) jeans. The one on top of the knickers must have come undone. And why the _fuck_ was he having an urge to grab Malfoy and tie his ribbon back into a nice little bow, just below his navel? And then linger on the bow, slowly smoothing it to make sure it lay flat, listening to Malfoy’s breath hitch and pretending he was just . . . putting him back together, was all. Blast Malfoy and his underwear fetish.

Harry forced himself back to the topic at hand. “Thanks for the coffee. I guess I needed it.” The sugar and caffeine were blasting him awake, aware, and warmer. Lovely. Malfoy had never been stupid, but none of the things he’d thought about had been at all nurturing, so far as Harry knew.

“So Potter, why did you look like someone had just hexed you when I said you have to follow procedures?”

Harry shook his head. Why give Malfoy the leverage?

Malfoy scooted his chair a little closer. “You know you’ll feel better once you tell someone,” he said, and Harry began to understand why the Order had overruled his emphatic arguments and accepted Malfoy as an interrogator halfway through the war. No one in the Order had been stupid enough to think Malfoy and Harry should ever be assigned to anything together, so he’d never seen Malfoy as any kind of listener before.

“Where have you been the last few years, Malfoy?” he asked abruptly. “You just disappeared the day Voldemort died.”

“To you, it was the day the Dark Lord died,” Malfoy said, and his eyes were hard. “To me, it was the day my father died.”

Harry was silent, processing this. He thought about all the treats and packages Malfoy’s parents had sent him so often at Hogwarts. Harry was no longer innocent enough to believe that people who did bad things did only evil. In fact, he suspected most of the people he could consider evil were kind to their families, considerate of their neighbours, spoiled their pets, and were thoughtful about little things like making sure their son and his friends had treats to remind them of home. 

“So you left town.”

“Yes. Went to Russia and studied theatre-related things – totally, completely, absolutely not connected to the war. Disguise, magic tech theatre – lights, sound, stage effects, the works – and occasionally acting, though that requires real work and wasn’t as much fun.”

“I hadn’t exactly pegged you as the tech type.”

“You probably remember sixth year? I repaired a complicated magical cabinet by myself. It just took research and tinkering. It wasn’t the best use of those talents, but hey – did none of your friends use their brains for things on the thither side of legal or ethical?”

Harry thought of the Weasley twins and acknowledged the hit. “So you think of it the same way as, say, a Muggle might view a teenage career of racing cars down busy streets or shoplifting cigarettes from convenience stores?”

He was interested to see that Malfoy understood his references. “With the one small difference that, if I didn’t shoplift, my parents would be killed. It was more like being a member of a very scary gang that you could only leave horizontally.” Then Malfoy grinned. “You’re not bad with some Auror procedures, I notice. You’ve successfully changed the subject. So why the misery? You’re living in a place you like, apparently, doing a job you were hoping to do since fifth year, lots of hero points if you want to cash them in . . . the wizarding world belongs to you, Potter!”

“Yeah, Malfoy, that’s why I’m one more failure away from being fired, the Prophet is having a field day inventing my private life for public consumption, I keep fucking up at work, Lila’s mom has been missing for a week now, I’m given stupid make-work jobs like what we’re doing, the nearest thing I ever had to a family is acting like I’m an embarrassing guest, my old school friends flinch if I so much as look at them crosswise, and worst of all, the only people in the entire _world_ I’ve told I feel like this are Ron, and Hermione, and you, whom I barely know.”

“I find it hard to believe they’d fire their Golden Boy, Potter.”

“Then you’re naïve. Political jobs are like that – people will throw anyone to the wolves, rather than have to go themselves. I’m not golden anymore, Malfoy. I’m like a child star who just didn’t get quite tall enough or charismatic enough to play romantic roles.”

Malfoy grabbed their mugs by the handles and took them across to the bar. “Well, come on, then, Elijah, back to interviewing pretty boys.”

“They’re not exactly pretty.”

“No, addicts lose their looks quickly. Mill used to blather on about that – said they destroyed looks she would have killed for.”

Harry stared at him. “When did she do that? I didn’t know you’d seen her recently.”

“Potter, she was a Slytherin, and in my year. We were friends by propinquity, and then we got to be real friends. And she’s been crusading for different causes – well, the same ones really, it’s only varied as to figure and ground – since her third year. You should have heard her lectures on the Fat Acceptance Movement. But they were nothing to the Sexual Traffic in Women seminars.”

“Hermione was like that too, but she’d take one cause at a time and beat it into the ground.”

“Maybe it’s a Muggle chromosome or something.”

Harry blinked. “Mill . . . is a Muggle?”

“She had a Muggle mother. Occasionally present wizard father, though not a talented one, except for the Animagus skills. I presume you know she’s an Animagus?” Harry nodded. “Haven’t you noticed her housekeeping is more Muggle than wizard? Bad role models, I always told her.”

“I never heard you insult Mill once for being a half-blood.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Of course not, Potter, she was my friend. Granger was _your_ friend. I had a sacred duty to insult Granger in public, preferably in front of you. I only insult my friends in private.”

“So you insulted Slytherin muggleborns and halfbloods in the Common Room?”

Malfoy sneered. “I hate to break this to you, but Slytherin wasn’t a haven of anti-muggle purebloods who considered any imperfectly bred Slytherin fair game. Salazar might have wanted only pure bloods, but frankly, there aren’t enough of us each year to fill a house. Slytherins are distinguishable by their ambition, Potter, and not all of us have an ambition to become the evil ruler of the Earth. Half the ministry’s from Slytherin. The competent half.” Malfoy waved his hand hastily as Harry opened his mouth. “It was a joke, Potter. I take it you are still humourless.”

Harry nodded. “Mill says that too. Lila likes my jokes.”

“Well, there you have it. Permanently stuck in the humour of an age group between peekaboo and vulgar sex and faeces jokes.”

Harry had a sudden sense that he was enjoying talking to Malfoy far too much. Fucking him was bad enough, but liking him – that way lay madness.

“Well, it’s been pretty much a wash of a day. Shall we get takeout and head home? I want to firecall Ron and Lila and make sure she’s doing okay.”

Malfoy nodded, and they sauntered toward the apartment. “You’re protective of her, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Harry felt himself flushing. “First of all, Mill’s like my older sister, so Lila’s like family. But . . . I don’t know . . . I just am protective of people, I guess.”

“After we eat, let’s sit down and you can teach me how an Auror would analyze what we learned today.”

Harry winced at the mockery. But talking business was certainly preferable to the awkwardness that might appear. He’d convinced Malfoy easily to stay in his flat, since it was unplottable and well-warded just in case the unplotting failed. If they weren’t talking about missing people, his eyes might just stray to that little untied bow again.

Malfoy’s idea of having Harry “show him” how an Auror thought consisted of transfiguring the living room wall into a bare, flat surface from its pleasant old-fashioned flocked wallpaper (Mill had odd little girly streaks in her living preferences). He used his wand to make a list of categories – locations, connections, substances, quirks, points of note. Harry recognised this orderly categorisation.

“Hermione used to do that in school.”

“Call me surprised. Had you wanted outstanding marks, Potter, this is the way you would have had to do it.”

Harry bit down on his comment that Hermione studied too much. Obviously, Draco had too, since his marks were almost as good as hers.

They went through and covered the six interviews they’d done. “Malfoy, I could just put you in charge of this investigation and go do something else.”

“Understand me, Potter. I have never – ever, I assure you – wanted to work for the Ministry. Malfoys _buy_ bureaucrats when we need them.”

“You shock me,” Harry said comfortably, lounging on the shabby couch.

“At any rate, I suspect you are perfectly capable of doing this too. You’re just too lazy, and no one ever taught you to think.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“I suppose it would be appropriate to blame McGonagall for Gryffindor shortcomings, but I think we can hold you personally responsible, since the occasional Gryff has shown an ability for systematic thought over the years.”

“Get to it, Malfoy, we don’t have all night.”

Draco arched one delicate eyebrow. “No? What else do we have to do?” The meaning he put into that question caused Harry to blush again, and Draco smirked. “I don’t plan to have sex with you again, Potter. Ever. So you can let go of the discomfort.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s out of the way.” But Harry remembered feeling the heavy, warm weight of Malfoy’s cock in his hand, sticky on one end, surrounded by fluffy, soft hair at the other, and his whole body wanted to feel it again. He would like to see Malfoy’s real face when Harry made him come – that kind of surrender was what Harry’d been looking for his whole life. He’d seen all awareness of Self and Other leave Malfoy’s face as it twisted in the release of desire. He wanted that again. He wanted Malfoy to want him, and trust him, and need him. He had no idea why.

He sighed, and began listing the geographical characteristics mentioned, dredged up from his memory, until Malfoy forced him to focus on each person and reproduce the information that one provided. Harry grudgingly admitted that notes would have helped.

**][o][o][o][o][**

“So, every one brought up Soho Square in some context,” Malfoy concluded, many cups of caffeine later. “Every one knew someone who lived near there. Every one of them has heard of the street drug “Karma,” but it’s the only one among all the substances each boy listed they haven’t tried. And several of them have run into a bloke named “Desire” – stupid name – but their descriptions are ridiculously different – blond, black, English, South African, tall, medium height, flash dresser, nothing special. Either there’s one person disguising himself in some way well enough to not trigger suspicions, which points to a possible wizard, or there are a group of them just using the same name, which is downright weird.”

“Well, I don’t think the Soho Square connection indicates anything. Malfoy, _Mill, Lila and I_ live two streets from there. Soho’s the center for the sex trade, and Compton Street’s the biggest gay centre in London.”

“It’s also just a street or so from Knockturn Alley.”

“Well, maybe, but let’s look for something more likely.”

“Fine, Potter, what’s your best guess for clues?” Malfoy leaned back and watched Harry from under his lashes, legs forward enough that Harry could see the untied silk bow. He suspected Malfoy was doing it on purpose. Fortunately, the earlier attraction had only been a fluke. Unfortunately, for some reason the untied bow made him feel _desperate_ to tidy Malfoy up. He moved his hand forward, just to tie the bow, and Malfoy slapped Harry’s hand without opening his eyes.

“Well, every one of the Desires is someone they met after midnight,” Harry said, trying to think of any further pattern, “didn’t like much, who offered them Karma in trade for sex.”

“And each one of them refused, for various reasons,” Draco pointed out. 

“That’s a weird coincidence. Surely some of them would have accepted.”

Draco shook his head. “It wouldn’t be coincidence at all if the ones we met were the only ones who didn’t disappear after taking Karma.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t it be a coincidence that all the ones we talked to had encountered someone named Desire?”

They were silent for a minute, processing this. “Either Desire is an extremely busy boy or they’ve got some other characteristic in common.” 

“Stop smirking, Potter. I said you had to be more intelligent than you look, so you just proved me right. How about this – the characteristic they had in common was they would all talk to us.”

“Chatty, friendly, trusting of strangers . . . “

“Right. Remember we got turned down by a few we tried to talk to.”

“So maybe, if you just hung out seeming friendly and chatty, you might get to talk to . . . .”

Malfoy’s glare stopped Harry’s sentence halfway. “Do you take me for a Gryffindor, Potter? Or a professional Auror? I have no intention of acting as bait.”

“You said—“

“I said I would help interrogate. I didn’t say I would ‘make myself vulnerable for a mysterious but probably deadly stalker to find me and take me somewhere.’”

Harry threw up his hands. “Malfoy, I need you for this – that’s why I’m paying you.”

“Paying me to do your job, while you . . . what _are_ you planning to do instead, Potter? Skive off to Paris for a week or so?”

Harry thought that sounded rather fun, but shook his head. “I have mentioned that my roommate is missing, Malfoy. I’m worried about her. She’s a fellow Auror, and no one else in the department seems to be arsed to look for her at all. I need some time to at least try to track her life. I know her better than most people, but there just aren’t that many pieces of her life which are suspicious. The Chief Auror is more suspicious of her being an Animagus than anything rational. I mean, who cares if she can and does occasionally turn into a cat? McGonagall did too, and it didn’t exactly contribute to her being a dangerous witch.”

“So you want to look for Mill. And what happens to her daughter while you’re searching? Just leave her at Weasley’s?”

“Ron’ll take care of her. He’s a good guy.”

“Except for giving her beer for tea.”

“It’s just a sip! She really likes it! Anyway, Malfoy, will you help me out here?”

Malfoy pursed his lips and considered. “Tell you what, Potter,” he said finally. “I’m going to help you out more than you expect. I’m going to take you to meet Mill’s current girlfriend. Her office is not far from here.”

“Great. We can get up early and –“

“Nah, if we’re going to catch her in, we better go now. She only works at night.”

**][o][o][o][o][**

Harry finally moved across the room and flopped onto the couch next to Draco. “That receptionist is driving me crazy,” he whispered.

“She’s coming on to you, idiot.”

“Why?”

Draco snorted. “I really can’t imagine, Potter. Possibly she wants your blood.”

Harry stood straight up without noticing. “My _blood?_ ”

“In case you haven’t noticed, she’s a vampire. So’s her boss.”

Harry blenched. “Mill’s girlfriend is . . . a vampire?”

“Yeah. I thought Mill was . . . shall we say, unwise? She thought I was prejudiced, though.”

Harry’s brows went together. “Now, I _know_ she just started going out with her new girlfriend about a month ago. You’ve been in Russia. How do you know about her?”

“Well, I could lie and say through owls. Will that do?”

Harry could feel his teeth grinding. He’d forgotten that interacting with Malfoy always led to jaw pain later. “Thanks, Malfoy, but I’d prefer the truth. Seeing as I am now in an office with a _vampire_ and a former _Death Eater in training_ , and am beginning to think that I have been reverting to the idiocy of childhood.”

Malfoy sighed. “All right, Mill is a friend of mine. When I got back to London I looked her up. I met her and her girlfriend – whose name is Sasha, by the way – and a few other friends from school, mostly, at a truly dreary wizarding club called _Poison_. We were catching up, and suddenly the lights went out and then things started blowing up around me. I took off, and haven’t seen or heard from Mill since.”

“So why didn’t you talk to her girlfriend before this?”

“I firecalled her the next day. She didn’t know anything. She said it was the Dark Lord’s Avengers, though – DLA. Mill knew a couple of them.”

Harry froze. “DLA? So you’re involved with them?”

“Pay attention, Potter. Only peripherally. But I suspect Mill is.”

“She’s got no sympathy for Death Eaters, old or new. And she wouldn’t risk Lila.”

“I never said she did – or would. But if you go crusading, occasionally you wind up entangled with the sort of people who stick their feet out and trip you up.”

Harry suspected Draco’s metaphor came from memories of their Hogwarts days. It was too pat. But the hair was rising on the back of his neck, hearing the DLA term. They were trouble, big trouble – enthusiastically pro-Death Eater and anti-Muggle, too young to be careful, and more interested in their romanticised view of the pre-War times than actually creating a strategy which might let them win. More terrorists than army, the Aurors had difficulty predicting which way they would jump. And he was stuck questioning prostitutes about a possible illegal love potion.

“I’ve got to find out more.”

“No doubt, Potter. But surely you’ve learned to get information before doing something about it?”

Harry made a face. Malfoy was patronising him, but he was also right.

Fortunately for Harry’s frustration level, the door to the office suite opened, and a quite lovely woman walked in.

She, like Mill, seemed perfectly comfortable in Muggle clothes, but hers were both more upscale and more feminine. She was wearing a silk dress the precise colour of fresh blood, which set off shoulder length, asymmetrical black hair and pale, pale skin – the only hint that she was a vampire, since she wasn’t smiling. Her mouth was set in an unhappy line, and she actually looked a little drugged. She wore nylon stockings and, unexpectedly, trainers.

Her assistant came up to her and whispered something, glancing over at Malfoy and Harry. The newcomer nodded, took what looked like a shoebox from the assistant’s desk, and walked over to them.

“My name is Sasha,” she said abruptly. “Of course I have met you, Draco, and I have heard much about you, Harry. Please come in.”

Her office was large, beautifully furnished, and windowless. There was a leather couch on one side, two chairs in the corner facing it, and a small table between. On the other side was an enormous desk of rubbed wood, completely bare except for a polished walnut in/out box and a small china canister shaped like an owl, presumably to reward the carriers. 

Sasha opened the box and took out a pair of dress shoes. The heels were only an inch or so high, unlike those of her assistant. She waved them to the couch and sat down in one of the chairs. 

“How can I help you?” She had the slightest trace of some Eastern European accent. She toed off her trainers and slid into the dress shoes and became recognisably an extremely professional woman.

“We’re trying to find Mill,” Harry said.

Her face softened. Harry, whose internal monologue, as it addressed the meta issues at all, would mostly have been translated along the lines of, “What the HELL were you thinking, Mill?” switched to “Awwww.” Clearly, Sasha cared a lot about Mill. Harry knew about love; he’d been in love once, his friends fell in love. Love made you stupid. It explained everything.

“We’re worried about her,” he added quickly, to make it clear whose side he was on.

Sasha did not seem surprised about that. “I have heard nothing since that night at the club,” she told Malfoy. 

Malfoy leaned back, relaxing a little. Harry hadn’t noticed how tense he’d been till then. “Do you have any suspicions?” he asked casually.

Sasha’s bushy black eyebrows met over her forehead. “If I did, and if I were correct, those I suspected would not be living now.” She looked every inch a vampire as she said that.

Harry braced himself not to flinch. _Love makes you stupid,_ he reminded himself. _Besides, Mill was a Slytherin. They’re used to dangerous friends._

Malfoy began to ask something else, but Sasha waved him to silence imperiously. She stood up and began to pace the room. “Until today, I had no suspicions,” she said. “But now, I think perhaps there is… a lead you might choose to follow.”

They waited.

“I am the executive director of an agency that helps recovering addicts and provides education to wizarding agencies on addictions. You know that, or you would not have found me.”

“Yeah, we just looked in the Fire Starter parchments,” Harry grunted. “Under potions colon addictions. Your job led you somewhere?”

She glared at him. “Is there something about Aurors that they are trained to be rude, and interrupt, and jump to conclusions?” she asked. “Mill does this too, sometimes, when she is tired. Are you tired?”

“I’m sorry. Go on.” 

“As I hope you know, there is an organisation called Ethical Vampires Crusade. EVC. I am the vice chair.”

It was Malfoy’s turn to shift restlessly. Harry looked at him, and saw that he was completely confused. “EVC’s one of the main organisations to improve vampire/human relations,” Harry said quickly. “They’ve got a list of agreements which vampires make to join, and in return, they get Ministry support.”

Sasha made a little moue. “It is true. The most important agreement is that we will only take blood from consenting adults. So we have an ongoing sign up list for wizards and witches who are willing to do this for us. In return, of course, we give them a few Galleons. The EVC gathers donations for this.”

Harry began to wonder if for some reason this vampire was keeping them around till daybreak on purpose.

Sasha must have seen his impatience. “I am sorry,” she said, and her smile somehow made Harry forgive her. “This is very important to me, my job, and I am used to giving lectures on it. At any rate, because of the small stipend, some of our donors are … without many resources. One of these is a young man who also sells his body, unfortunately. He was born to wizard parents – quite an old family, he tells me – but himself has little magic.”

A Squib, Harry thought. 

“I was in a hurry this evening, because I had forgotten to feed last night – there are grant proposals due – and tonight was going to be as busy. So I called Evelyn on his cell phone and asked if he would meet me right after dark. He said he was meeting someone, and should be done long before dark, so we agreed to meet in a little pub in Knockturn Alley. He was a little disjointed – you know how those phones are, but the young love such toys – and said something I couldn’t catch, about desire. I assumed he was explaining why this was important enough to be late for.”

Draco and Harry held very still when they heard that last sentence. Maybe this _was_ going somewhere helpful.

“Evelyn did not appear. After 40 minutes, I concluded that he had been waylaid, perhaps, and decided to leave the Castrated Rooster, which I do not like at all, and dine at the Leaky Cauldron, where one of the barmaids is very considerate in urgent situations. I left Knockturn to walk along Muggle streets, which I prefer because vampires are not approved of among wizards. As I got to the entrance, I found Evelyn lying unconscious on the sidewalk.”

Sasha’s story, which she would _not_ speed up, boiled down to the fact that she brought her donor into the Leaky Cauldron, fed him, then fed _from_ him, in some desperation, since the barmaid turned out to have taken the day off. As a result of the feeding, she got a horrible headache and became somewhat disoriented herself.

“I asked Evelyn what had happened, and he said a man named Desire had engaged him for … his services. When they met, Desire gave him a potion he said would increase his pleasure. Instead, he seemed to have an allergic reaction, and blacked out. He woke up in a deserted building, which used to house Borgin and Burkes before it was closed down during the war. He was quite distressed, because he was surrounded by dead bodies and two vampires who definitely had _not_ embraced the EVC Acceptable Practices Agreement, who appeared to be systematically turning these victims into Inferi. 

“Evelyn lay there, pretending to be dead and listening to the discussion. When the Dark practitioners went to get a potion they needed for their work, he staggered to his feet and ran off. He made it a certain distance before he fainted. Fortunately, that part of town is not noted for caring too much about strangers who seem the worse for drink, and he was still there when I came by.”

“Why do you think this has anything to do with Mill?” Malfoy asked, though Harry noticed his fingers were drumming quietly against the couch seat. Since Harry lived close to Knockturn Alley himself, he rather thought Sasha should skip the geographical explanations and get to the point.

Instead, Sasha took out a compact and powdered her face, then added lipstick while staring into the top of the compact. Harry was rather surprised at this, from what he’d heard about vampires and mirrors, and Sasha, glancing up, noticed him staring.

“This is a product we make to raise funds for the organization,” she said, smiling at him and handing him the compact. Instead of a mirror, there was a small replica of Sasha’s face, which turned from side to side as Harry looked at it, then fluttered its eyelashes at him and blew him a kiss. Harry blushed. 

“He told me what little he could hear. Someone was being interrogated – a witch, he thinks, because she kept saying, “I thought you were after Muggles, not wizards. I was in your year in Slytherin! And don’t even _think_ of Obliviating me, Ted, or I’ll get loose and twist your cock off.”

Harry flinched. Malfoy laughed. “Could have been Ted Nott.”

“In which case, given the Slytherin and your year, it wouldn’t exactly be a stretch for it to be Mill,” Harry agreed.

“Nah, Potter, exactly how many of the witches at Hogwarts talked like that?”

“Mill says that only to people she wants to arrest or kill,” Sasha agreed quietly. “But I have heard her say it, more than once.”

“I haven’t, but I don’t work with her,” Harry said. “She hasn’t said it to me.”

“Be grateful, Potter. Sasha, I think we need to get to Knockturn Alley.”

Sasha nodded, and walked them to the outer door. She kissed Draco on the cheek and shook Harry’s hand. “A pleasure, gentlemen. I am sorry I am not myself.”

“Would you like me to call St. Mungo’s?” Harry asked. “They could send a healer.”

“No, thank you. After all, the potion cannot possibly kill a vampire, and we are used to filtering blood that has been tainted in various ways. “

“We’ll want to interrogate your friend later.”

“He is not in condition to be approached just now, but we will see.”

Out on the sidewalk, they paused to assess.

“Well, what’s the fastest route?” Malfoy asked, sounding just a bit on edge. He had paled at the first mention of Inferi.

“You’re not coming, Malfoy.”

“What? That’s absurd – I’m the one who brought you to Sasha.”

“Yes, and that was a very good informant behaviour, and if there’s a reward, I’ll see you get it,” Harry said kindly. “However, I seem to remember you saying you were not going to do dangerous things.“ 

“Don’t patronise me, Potter! My ancestors were developing new curses when yours were trying to figure out how to light a fire with rocks!”

Harry’s kind feelings toward Malfoy abruptly left him. “I…” he said coldly, “am an _Auror_. You… are a _rentboy_. I am trained to go into dangerous situations and fight. You are trained…well, I have no idea if sex workers get training, but that’s how you’re trained.”

“I was trained by my _father_ , who was –“

“One of the most evil wizards living in this generation, yes,” Harry said. He surreptitiously shook his wand down his sleeve. He remembered what used to happen once they started bringing in their fathers.

Malfoy smirked, and caught him off guard. “Exactly.”

Harry felt 13 years old again, and in danger of losing the argument. He reminded himself that he had learned just a _little_ about fighting Dark Lords and annoying brats since then. He felt his face take on the You Are In Danger, Sir look which Hermione and Ron agreed was what made him scariest.

“Let me be clear about this, Malfoy. I am going to check out Knockturn Alley. If you want to help, you will go to the Ministry of Magic and report this to whatever Aurors are on duty. If, after you have performed that task, you still wish to help, you may locate Evelyn, take him to St. Mungo’s, and find out what potion they gave him.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows hitched together, but he didn’t argue. He merely looked sullen. Harry began to feel that there were advantages to looking scary that his friends discounted.

“Any questions?”

“How do I find Evelyn?”

“Use your imagination.” With that, Harry Apparated to Knockturn Alley.


	4. In Which Draco Malfoy Turns Out To Be Of Use

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry uses magic and Draco uses his brain

After being an Auror for three years, Harry did not find Knockturn as terrifying as when he was 12. For one thing, he was over a foot taller now, and knew a lot more hexes. For another, one look at his famous face and people on the seamy side of the law slipped into back alleys to avoid him. 

The former Borgin and Burkes storefront had no windows anymore – just red brick, the same colour as the other bricks in the building, of course, dirty and sooty as if they hadn’t been cleaned since the 18th century. Unexpectedly, its door was gone as well. Harry slipped his wand out of its holster and walked slowly around the building. On the alleyway in back, there were two hand carts parked against a wall, and two idlers chatting to each other and leaning on them. They looked at Harry and stopped their conversation abruptly.

He walked past them, and the back of his neck prickled. There was something strange about their presence here. No door was visible in back either – why were their carts here, then? He slowed, trying to let his instincts give him enough information to act.

“Want a lager, mate?” one asked, unexpectedly just a metre behind him. Harry jerked, then turned.

A large man with a forehead just this side of baldness, a bulbous nose, and watery blue eyes, was smiling at him with a grin that didn’t look quite genuine. He was holding out a bottle of Muggle lager, and Harry saw five others on the cart. He hadn’t particularly noticed them before.

“Muggle beer? Ummm, thanks, but no,” he said, and waited for them to approach with whatever the lager was an excuse for.

“Have it your way.” The man grinned and twisted the top off. The sound nearly masked heavy feet near him – as Harry whirled, ready for magical defence, he saw a large body hurtling toward him. It slammed into his chest, and he went down, pinioned by this embarrassingly non-magical means.

The next thing he knew, the lager – which tasted nothing like lager, or anything even vaguely palatable – was being forced down his throat by the one who had offered it to him. He squirmed, looking for a way free, even while choking and swallowing the awful liquid.

To his surprise, the larger man rolled off him, though still holding his wand. _They think I’m helpless without it?_ Harry thought. _Surprise!_ He focused to call the wand to him, or tried to. He realised the words were not forming clearly in his head. In fact, he couldn’t recall the command. “Wwwwwand,” he finally tried, out loud in case that would help. The men laughed. His wand wiggled in its captor’s hand, then stopped moving.

“Welcome to Karma, Mr. Potter,” one of them said, as Harry’s eyes glazed over. “You’ll be an amusing little addition to our Inferi collection.”

**][o][o][o][o][**

His head felt as though someone had shattered it. The cause might have been the off-key singing which had tormented his brain into wakefulness. Or it might have had something to do with the “lager” which had been forced down his throat -- there was a truly nasty taste in his mouth, worse than Polyjuice. The familiar shape of his wand wasn’t pressing against his right arm. And, of course, someone was singing off-key. The first thing Harry thought was that he’d drunk an awful lot the night before, and it was probably time he grew up. Then, slowly, it dawned on him that it might be too late for that – he might already be dead. If so, he didn’t like the afterlife at _all_. 

He cautiously raised his head. Pieces did not drop off and bounce across the floor. His hands were shaking, but they held him up. Harry felt hopeful for perhaps six seconds, until it became clear to him that whatever they had given him definitely disagreed with his system. He gagged, retched, and emptied his stomach.

Afterwards, he felt a little better. Harry staggered to his feet and leaned against the wall. He appeared to be surrounded by dead bodies. If clothing were an indicator, they were all Muggles. “Shite,” Harry said, unable to think of anything more original. He began turning them over and looking at them carefully. They were all young; mostly women, a few young men. They were all definitely dead, except for him.

Harry returned to the supportive wall, and thought as well as he could with the potion sliding through his system. Muggles died – but Evelyn had not died, and Harry wasn’t dead yet. So far as he knew, the only thing they had in common was that they were both from wizarding stock.

He staggered to the door, and found it locked. He was not without some wandless magic, but in the shape he was in, he doubted it would work. “Alohomora!” he demanded. The door remained closed and locked.

They would be coming back, that much was certain. There were big men and scary vampires. He didn’t want to be an Inferius, or whatever the singular was. He had to either escape or hide.

The off-key singing was still in his ears. Harry tried to clear his brain enough to hear better. It was coming from behind what appeared to be a solid wall. He staggered toward it, for lack of a better direction.

The words became clearer as he came closer. The tune was no truer, but the voice sounded familiar.

_They’re not making the leaves so strong this year,_  
 _Wish you were here._  
 _And why have the birds lost their song this year?_  
 _Wish you were here,_  
 _All the colours don’t seem so new,_  
 _Brand new as they did with you._  
 _Wish you were here, wish you were, wish you were here._

_They’re not making the skies so blue this year_   
_Wish you were here,_   
_And why am I feeling so blue right here …_

“I would have thought you’d sing musical numbers to keep yourself amused,” Harry observed through the wall. “I always thought you only knew musicals.”

There was a short silence. “Potter!” Mill’s voice was a trifle weak and wobbly, but recognisable. “What the fuck are you doing here? Unless you came with backup, get out!”

“No backup,” Harry said regretfully. “Unless you can.”

“I’m totally surrounded, in case you haven’t noticed, with a foot thick of stone and no wand,” Mill replied. “Is Lila all right?”

“She’s with Ron.”

“Oh well. That’s good, then. And you?”

“Horribly sick. I’m also in a room full of dead people. They made me drink Karma.”

“Shit. Interesting -- you’re the second one who’s survived that poison today. You’ve got to get out of there – they’re making Inferi, and if you won’t die one way, they’ll try another.”

Harry slid down the wall till he was sitting on the moist stone floor. “I can’t get out the door,” he stated. “They thought the previous guy who escaped was dead. I may be safer if they think I’m dead.”

“You’re a bit more of a prize, you arse. Think they didn't recognise you? These are baby Death Eaters we’re talking about – they were probably given a dart set with your face on it in first year.”

“Oh, they recognised me.” Harry looked around, trying to find a weapon. The piles of naked bodies did not look promising. “Why are you still alive, Mill?”

“The leader had a crush on me in school. Apparently he still does. Nott was always romantic – probably thinks the Death Eaters are a way to save the world. All I do is say scary sexual things and he has to go jerk off.”

“Too much information, Mill,” Harry said. 

“Well, Ted’s convinced I’ll come around if he just tells me how right they are, and how wrong people like you are. Apparently there are people other than you who never got over school loyalties, Potter. Damn. I thought I’d have help by now.”

“Well, I came to help.”

There was a snort. “I know you did. But I was counting on Draco. He was the best in our year at Slytherin Hunt and Seek. He wouldn’t have been carried in prone.”

Harry didn’t want to ask. At least, about Hunt and Seek. “You thought he’d come looking for you?”

Mill’s voice was growing a little slurred. “Yeah, why not? We’re friends, and he knows I wouldn’t skive off and leave Lila. Besides, he’s got his own problems with these folks.”

“Well, I told him to stay behind.”

“So you could come in without backup? Good choice.”

“We’re not supposed to involve civilians,” Harry said stiffly. “You know that.”

“Since when do you follow rules?”

Harry thought, _since they protect Draco_ , and then was shocked at himself. “How’d you get involved in this?”

“Stupidity, I suppose. I started a safe place for sex workers to hang out when it gets cold or rainy or they don’t have enough money for food. Some of them started disappearing. Asked around and… it’s a long story, but it ended here.” Her voice was almost a mumble.

“Mill, are you all right?”

“I’m fading, Potter. Nott gives me some nasty potion to keep me from trying to escape when he’s not around. First I get a bit drunk, and now… now I go to sleep. Good night, Harry.”

Harry tried to resist the loud yawn, but he felt too ill. He curled up against the wall and let his eyes close.

**][o][o][o][o][**

_Chief Auror_  
The Ministry of Magic  
02:07 Friday morning

_~~Gawain –  
I swore I’d never ask a favour after the amnesty deal, but this involves two of your own Aurors.~~ _

_~~Gawain,  
I can return the favour you so kindly arranged for me, by telling you how to rescue~~ _

_~~Gawain, I know we’re not supposed to be in contact publicly, for fear people will know that your wife’s my dad’s cousin and the Death Eater stain will rub off on you, but this is an emergency. …~~ _

_~~Fuck it.~~ _

_Auror Robards: please send at least three, preferably more, Aurors to Knockturn Alley, the site of the old Borgin and Burkes store. There you will find a fully operational Dark Lord Avengers’ unit, which has been killing Muggle prostitutes to convert to an Inferius army. Vampires are involved as well. Your Auror Potter ~~stumbled on the plot~~ uncovered the plot in his investigations for the Ministry of Magic._

_I will meet you there. Please do not delay. The life of at least one, and perhaps more, of your Aurors is at stake. ~~Potter indubitably has made a mess of it by now.~~ Potter may need a hand, if the situation is more ~~risky dangerous harder to handle~~ unstable than he believed._

_In haste, Draco Malfoy_

**][o][o][o][o][**

Someone was shaking him hard. Harry moaned and turned his head away. “It’s too early. It’s Saturday.”

“Try, ‘I’m not in school anymore,’ Potter. That would be more accurate.”

Harry blinked, and opened his eyes against his own best judgment. The overhead lights hurt his headache.

Draco Malfoy had his hands on Harry’s shoulders. He looked worried. It was not an expression Harry had seen on Malfoy’s face before.

“What… what?”

“Did they knock you on the head or what, Potter?”

“No, they gave me some Karma…” Harry trailed off as Malfoy blenched.

“Potter, it’s going to be all right. I’m getting you out of here and to St. Mungo’s. You’re going to pull through this.” And Malfoy actually manhandled Harry to his feet, apparently to hold him for side-along apparation.

Harry squirmed. “Malfoy, it’s all right. _Malfoy,_ let go of me!” And when that didn’t work, he leaned against Malfoy’s shoulder. “ _Draco_ , I’m all right. Really. I’m not going to die from Karma.” He noticed that Malfoy’s arm was shaking a little, where it was wrapped around him, and added, “Really.”

Malfoy was hanging on to Harry with his left arm. Harry was dimly grateful to see that Malfoy’s right hand was gripping a wand. He thought of snatching it, but his hand seemed too shaky for that. Besides, presumably Malfoy was not alone.

“Where are the others?”

“Other what?”

“The Aurors.”

Malfoy’s paleness receded a little; possibly, he was blushing. “Oh, they should be here soon.”

“You came in without backup?”

“I don’t need your opinion, Mr. Pot. Where’s Mill?”

Harry waved at the wall. “Through that.”

Malfoy aimed his wand at it. “ _Evanesco_.” The wall disappeared.

Harry saw his flatmate curled up on a ragged and dirty couch, an equally ragged and dirty blanket wrapped around her. She was either asleep or unconscious, and an arm trailed off the side of the couch limply. As he came closer, he saw a drop of drool at the corner of her mouth. Despite his own drugged senses, he felt furious. Mill was always so self-contained. She would hate being seen like this.

“Is she poisoned too?” Malfoy asked, sounding concerned.

“No, sleep potion with a kick, I think. Nott doesn’t trust her alone.”

Malfoy studied Mill, and Harry was astonished to see affection in his face. “She’d kill us if she knew we were seeing her like this.”

“I won’t ever tell if you won’t.”

Malfoy turned his head. His expression didn’t change. “You honestly expect to live after being poisoned?”

“Karma doesn’t kill wizards. Only Muggles.” He’d worked that out while throwing up. First Evelyn, then himself, both ill, neither dead. “The stupid idiots don’t seem to have figured that out yet.”

“Probably think they made a bad batch. Or whoever’s the brains of the group hasn’t been told yet.”

“You are mistaken.”

They whirled around. A tall, weedy man in black robes with light green piping was standing a few feet from them, wand aimed at Draco. 

“Drop your wand, Draco. Or you die first.”

“Fine, Ted. I don’t even want to die second.”

“Don’t,” Harry began, but it was too late. Malfoy opened his hand and the wand fell out of it.

“Accio.” It flew to Nott, who caught it with his left hand.

“Draco was a Slytherin, Potter. And you clearly have no sense of preservation.” He smirked. Nott’s smirk was eerily like Draco’s, but Harry did not find it in the least attractive. “Or you would have kept your mouth shut. You’re distracting me.” He swung his wand toward Harry, narrowed his eyes, and said, “ _Avada Ke…._ ”

The second word was broken off suddenly as Malfoy’s body hit Nott’s knees and threw him backwards. Harry’s reaction time was off, but he had been forcing his body to leap toward Nott since the wand aimed at him. He arrived half a second after Malfoy and on top of both him and Nott, who was buckling as his knees betrayed him.

The jolting arrival, and the unpleasant jarring at his groin as Malfoy’s head stopped its forward momentum, brought back the queasiness. He found just a little more vile potion in his system to bring up over Nott’s jaw and neck.

As Nott squealed, Malfoy wriggled out from under Nott and prudently acquired both his own and Nott’s wands. He examined his carefully.

“Good thing you wanted me to drop it, Ted,” he commented, as he put it away and snapped Nott’s in two. “I didn’t want to risk breaking it when I jumped you.”

“Blood traitor! I’ll have you, Malfoy! I’ll have you, and then you will die slowly!” Nott snarled.

“Taking Dark Lord lessons, are we?” Harry commented. To his surprise, Malfoy laughed.

“No, just a Slytherin who hasn’t grown up, and still models himself on his hero. The Dark Lord often blathered on for hours before he got to the killing part.”

"I remember that," Harry said.“Where do you suppose my wand is?”

“ _Incarcerous_. I recommend searching him.”

Harry gingerly put his hands over the logical places to hide a wand on Nott’s body. He found it stuck in one of three wand holsters – the other two empty. Easing it out through Malfoy’s ropes was mildly difficult. However, he approved Malfoy’s caution. 

“You would have made a good Auror, Malfoy.”

“Don’t insult me, Potter. Go wake our sleeping beauty.”

With wand in hand, Harry went back to Mill’s bedside and tried a healing spell or two. The old standby _Rennervate_ worked well. As Mill’s eyelashes began fluttering, Harry heard loud cracks and then a series of shouts and spells.

Harry whirled, and looked around quickly. Sounds travelled well, but in the cavernous room, there were still only dead bodies besides the three of them, and the walls remained whole.

“How are we hearing them, Malfoy?”

“Probably an ongoing spell. I presume that’s how Ted heard us here. Don’t know how he sneaked in – couldn’t have Apparated or we would have heard it.”

“What’s going on?”

“I notified the Ministry, as you … suggested. I would assume that those are your Auror friends, arriving late, but that’s the Ministry for you.”

Harry focused hard, then pointed at the wall. “ _Evanesco_.”

The next room looked like an especially realistic staging of the end of _Macbeth_. There were Aurors duelling with wizards in black robes with a lime green band around the edges, the same as Nott’s. _Avada Kedavra green_ , Harry thought in disgust. Hexes, jinxes, curses were flying. There was blood on the already-filthy wooden floor.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, then twitched his wand in a pattern unfamiliar to Harry. Surreally, all the Dark Lord’s Avengers flew into the air and began twirling, their arms straight out, heads tipped with jaws up, and feet pointed downward. Even more surreally, they were in an neat straight line horizontally. One was kicking, struggling for his wand, and Malfoy twitched his own wand again. The twirling speeded up until there was a blur of black and green. It now looked less like _Macbeth_ and more like some supernatural musical comedy.

“What the fuck?”

“Oh, from my Advanced Chorus Line class. Simpler to have a tech backstage than have each chorus dancer carrying his or her own wand for aerial dance. Though I think my classmates would probably have killed me if I whirled them this fast.”

Harry stared at the chorus of Death Eating dancers. Some were moaning, and it was clear that most were motion sick. The inevitable happened, and the Aurors, who were staring up with open mouths, hastily leaped aside to avoid being splattered. Gingerly, they began casting _Incarcerus_ on each dancing Avenger.

“How’d you manage to pick out the Avengers and not the Aurors?”

“Well, conveniently, both sides are wearing a uniform. There’s a specification for costumes in the spell.” Malfoy looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “Of course, it’s been known to go wrong, and send up the wrong set of costumes,” he added. “Usually, it’s just a matter of sending up the male dancers instead of the female, or vice versa. Here, it might have been embarrassing. A team of Aurors dancing above their prey.”

“I think it’s brilliant,” Harry admitted, watching the twirling. When fully tied, each prisoner fell several feet to the floor, presumably because they no longer were in correct costume. The thuds of the DLA mixed with the monotonous “ _Incarcerous_!” of the Aurors, who were taking it slowly. Harry began to snicker, and then sat down, leaned his head back, and laughed till his muscles ached.

After a few minutes of this, he was breathing slowly, feeling much better, and looked up to see his loathed boss standing next to Malfoy.

“So you really did need the backup,” Robards commented to Malfoy.

“A bit. Potter did most of the work already.”

Robards’ cool eyes roved over Harry’s face. “Oh?”

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Mill had joined them. Harry knew that hand signal -– she used it at parties. It meant “shut up and listen.” He closed his mouth.

Malfoy, however, was obviously not intending to shut up. “Apparently, it was your assignment, Gawain -– good work. The DLA had kidnapped an Auror, presumably for questioning, maybe for ransom -– and Potter put that together with the disappearances and did some footwork. He told me when he ran into me that he was concerned about innocent people dying while he went through proper notification procedures, and asked me to owl you and your office while he scouted ahead.”

“Your letter did not make it clear that the matter was so urgent, Draco.”

“Didn’t it? Sorry. Not exactly a professional Auror, am I? Still, it turned out well.”

Robards looked at the last DLA member being levitated out, and nodded grudgingly. “Who’s this one?”

Harry spoke, still a little dizzy from Malfoy’s covering him. “That’s Theodore Nott. He was in our year at Hogwarts. He’s the leader, I think.”

Robards appeared to be struggling with something in his throat. Finally, he got it out. “Good work, Potter. This will get you another Order of Merlin, I think.” And, just in case Harry might think Robards was softening toward him, “Not first class, this time, of course.”

“Of course not,” Harry agreed.

“See you tomorrow, then. Seal off the place; we’ll follow it up tomorrow. Lot of paperwork for this one.” Without waiting for a reply, Robards followed the other Aurors out of the old building.

“How do you think they got in?” Harry said, more to avoid Mill’s questions than anything.

“Blasted a hole in the wall, probably,” Malfoy said. He glanced at Harry, and took a step closer. “You all right, Potter?”

“Still feeling sick from that potion,” Harry said evasively. That was true, but the really bad part was thinking about going to work tomorrow.

Mill hauled him over to the couch she’d slept on, and pushed him onto it. “Harry, we have to talk.”

“Can’t it wait, Mill? I have lots of questions, but you heard Robards – I’ve got a short night ahead of me, and I could use some sleep.”

Mill glanced at Malfoy as she sat down on one side of Harry. Malfoy sat on the other.

“So tell, me Potter, do you _like_ being an Auror?” he asked. “Get off on seeing justice done, that sort of thing?”

“I would, if it were,” Harry said grumpily. Leave it to Malfoy to rub his nose in how much he hated his job.

“Why don’t you do something else, then? Something that suits you better?”

“What? Rent myself out by the hour, like you?” Harry snapped. Then he stared at the floor, ashamed. Malfoy had always pushed his buttons – and apparently that hadn’t changed. 

Mill jumped in. “Draco, is there something you haven’t been telling me?”

After a silence, Draco said, “Mill, I owled you, but you never got the owls. Trust me, it isn’t the way it sounds.”

Harry started to speak, and then was silent. He did owe Malfoy his life, after all. Not to mention a small improvement in Robards’ regard. If Malfoy wanted to keep secret how he made a living, Harry would back him up. 

Mill seemed to be looking at them both. Finally, she nodded, as if she’d decided something. “Why not wait for Draco to make his point, Potter? He usually has one.”

Harry glared at Malfoy, the best he could do. “What’s your point?”

Malfoy, oddly, looked uncomfortable. “You’re not cut out to work for the Ministry, Potter. You never followed rules, not from the first time the Dark Lord tried to kill you and conveniently vaporised for 11 years. You don’t follow rules about living, you don’t follow rules about dying, and you certainly never follow rules about doing what you’re told. The Ministry is all about rules and paperwork.”

“I don’t hear a point, Malfoy.” What Harry did hear was a series of insults, which would have made him less angry if he didn’t happen secretly to agree.

“I’m… tired of what I’m doing now, Potter. I figure I’m quite competent to do something else – and I was telling the truth about no one hiring a former DE. No one with regular work, anyway. But consulting work pays, and desperate people aren’t too fussy about the past. The two of us could make a good team there – I’d pull in the Dark side and you’d pull in those who worship the Boy Who Lived.”

“A – a team? For what?”

“Private investigations. Work against the Dark. And, just for the hell of it, you know, we could work for the people who’ve been screwed by the Ministry as well.”

Harry knew that list would be a long one. His name was somewhere on it. “I’m not convinced it’s a good idea.”

“It won’t take a lot to get started. A place to work and some word of mouth. We can just sit in a lot of pubs at first.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not broke, Malfoy. My parents and my godfather left me money. I even have a house we could use. I was thinking more of the problem of… you and me working together. And leaving the Aurors. Joining them was all I ever wanted to do since 4th year.”

“That’s news to me,” Mill commented. Harry jumped. He’d been watching Malfoy so intensely, he’d forgotten she was there. “Why?”

“Mad Eye Moody said I’d be good at it.”

“No,” Malfoy said. “He never did.”

“What? He told Ron and me …”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, a bloody _Death Eater_ who wanted to _kill you_ recommended that you be an Auror, remember? Any other Aurors say it was a good idea?”

Harry thought about that. “Well, actually, no. But….”

“I doubt they thought you’d be good at it, either. But it must have been a hoot for Crouch, thinking how miserable he could make you and your colleagues, all at once. Not that he planned for you to live long enough to actually do it.”

“I’ll start warding the place,” Mill added, stretching and standing up. “You need to go home to bed, so don’t worry about Robards’ orders. For what it’s worth, Harry, I think Draco’s right. I also think you two might work well together. You don’t seem to be punching each other quite as much as you did at Hogwarts.”

“Need to borrow my wand?”

“Naaah. If I know Ted, he’s got mine in the bottom drawer of his desk. Going to have to clean it well, I suspect.” She stretched and sauntered out.

“So, what do you think, Potter? No bosses, no regular hours, no rules about what you can and can’t do to get the job done….”

It sounded beautiful to Harry. “How soon should I quit?”

Malfoy stood up and dragged Harry to his feet. “I think you should send them an owl when you get home. Say you’ve sustained injuries – you’ve been poisoned, after all – and you need to work at something less destructive to your body. So you’re resigning for health reasons, effective immediately.”

“What? Without filling out the report?”

“Which would you rather do – lie, or quit?”

Harry scratched his head, stymied at the logic. 

Then Malfoy drove his bargain home. “I’ll let you tie the bow on my pants.”

Harry felt his face heat. “You said we’d never have sex again.”

“Yeah, well. This is a _pretty_ bow.”

Harry thought about this. Not very long. Stupid Malfoy and his underwear fetish.

“Louie, I’ve got the feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he said, happily certain Malfoy wouldn’t understand the reference.

“Sorry, Potter, that’s my line. I’m the hero of this story.”

“Fine words from someone studying for years in Russia just to learn how to be a drama queen.”

Malfoy shoved him, lightly. Harry shoved back. They walked into the mist of Knockturn Alley and disappeared.

**][o][o][o][o][**

_Thanks for backing me up, Mill. You’re right – what I’m doing makes a lot more sense with the owls you never got. Can’t believe they all showed up at Sasha’s place. You must be serious about her. You could do worse. Although she plays her cards close to her chest. Never once mentioned my owls. I strongly suspect she read them, however._

_As to Potter, he’s not precisely a one-night stand sort, but I have no idea if it will work. Finding out I’m madly fancying a bloke I thought I hated is an unpleasant surprise. But as working partners, there may be some room for breaking it to him gently. At least, I think so._

_I’m glad you realize that I’m not streetwalking, especially not for the money. I had fears you’d start wanting to pay me back for your flat. You and Lila really need a comfortable home. One must do **something** with one’s time, and I strongly suspect romancing Potter while frustrating him madly will be quite amusing. And, of course, there will be wrongs to right, and we will do so, just to ensure that you keep speaking to us._

_Wish me luck. I’m going out to acquire a set of pants with bows. I may need to have them designed and handmade. Potter doesn’t seem to realise that most knickers have their bows sewn down, these days. May he remain ignorant of that fact._

_\--D  
_

**Finis**

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written and posted for HDHolidays. Below are my original notes: **Author's Notes:** Hope you like this, Fire – I’ve never actually written about vampires or cross dressing. The characters decided to write their own plot, so it’s a bit “rocky” in more than one way. They also decided to be crack. Thanks to ,, and for help above and beyond the call of any beta anywhere, . Stray rubbed my nose in canon, usage, and hypertext often enough that I actually learned things! Many thanks also to for his lovely help with Draco’s Russian. Thanks also to the for wonderful last minute geographic assistance. Lines of the song Mill is singing while… er… unwell is “Wish You Were Here,” in a spectacularly screwed up version.  
>  **ETA:** This was written for as the last hurrah before Deathly Hallows came out, so there are NO spoilers for DH. This is the first in what may be a series of stories about Harry and Draco – and Mill – in the “Love Makes You Stupid” universe.
> 
> LATER AN:  
> I have a partially-written sequel which is a murder mystery, but I fear without actually feeling someone's dying to read it it'll probably never be done. So out of curiosity, just asking if this 'verse is one you'd revisit willingly.


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